Resurrection
by Cgal the Avenger
Summary: Frollo didn't topple down Notre Dame that fiery day, and instead is arrested. A year later, he is reinstated as minister, and seeks to leave behind the memories of his temptress. But when a certain, shellshocked gypsy returns, will he be able to fight temptation? And will they be able to find peace? Rated M for sexual content
1. Prologue

Inspired by a Tumblr RP between smolderingeyesravenhair and thisfireinmyskin. People, go follow them, they're awesome!

TW for this chapter: sexual abuse

xxx

Esmeralda clings to Quasimodo's large palm, but her eyes are affixed on the man towering above her, sword in hand.

Then, the unthinkable happens. Her hand slips.

"NO!" the woman shrieks, fingers clawing at empty air.

But the rescuer is rescued. Esmeralda watches as her brave defender is caught by another hero below.

She hears the laugh, that sinister, mocking laugh. Her gaze darts up to the dark figure that now hoists a sword above his head.

His eyes burn with the need to destroy, to kill. The monster stares at his hapless prey, about to leap across the divide, plunge the sword into the temptress's neck and spill her crimson blood over the steps. _The blood of a demon on the floors of a church. How poetic. _

But... fate had other plans.

An alarming crack is heard by both parties. And Frollo's bloodlust is interrupted by his own fear as his balance, his own center of gravity, tips.

His gaze snaps up to the very thing he had sought to destroy. Her gaze, her emerald gaze burrows into his own, as the very knowledge of his precarious situation flashes through both their minds as momentary as a lightning bolt splitting the sky.

She has done this for sure. He is certain that her treachery has led him here, and that she had planned this demise all along. And now he would die. He would fail, and die.

The epiphany of his situation only takes mere milliseconds in both their minds.

But mere milliseconds were all it took to change the course of events entirely.

He topples back, arms flailing in such an undignified way... when a hand grasps the front of his robes, and yanks him back.

Instantly, Esmeralda lets go of the black velvet, horror flooding through her system. Questions blaze through her head-the most prevalent being, _Why save him?_

She stumbles back, tripping over her own tired feet. Her body slams into the stone floor, knocking the wind out of her.

Frollo stumbles back onto the ledge, the utter shock of the events that had transpired still fresh in his mind. As he falls beside her, the incubi, the _witch,_ the cold stone does not register. No. Instead all he can think about, all he can see, is her sprawled on the floor, her green eyes so wide, so consuming.

She _saved_ him.

_She_ saved him.

And now, she tries to scramble away, run away like a frightened child. But his hand claws at her arm and slams her down into the ground.

She lets out a cry of pain as her head connects to the stone ground. Stars blink before her eyes, dancing before his leering, approaching face. He's on top of her, pinning her down.

Frollo sinks his nails into her skin. Her act of mercy... is it simply a need to keep him alive because of her spell? Because she needs him alive in order to torment him?

Well, then he shall teach her the price of such schemes.

She struggles valiantly, her hoarse voice screaming for help. It is time to silence her wicked tongue once and for all.

Before he can think, his lips are upon hers, crushing, violating, tasting. Her sweet flavor hits his tongue, and heat courses through his veins. A muffled shriek reverberates against their lips, their intertwined lips, oh! She tastes too good to be human.

Dread crashes on her as ecstasy soars within him. She wriggles and squirms, only to realize, her movements are satisfying the carnal hunger he possesses, the one he's always possessed since he groped her within this very cathedral. Tears sting her eyes as he pants and moves against her, the hard rod of his erection grinding into her. _Stop, stop, stop! _She inwardly screams, trying to bite him, pinch him, do anything to get this monster off of her. Disgust mingles with her own horror as the beast ignores her struggles, and simply presses harder. Her skin crawls, and a crushing weight presses on her chest, and not just his body pinning her down.

He yanks his head off, only to resume pressing his scalding lips to her neck, his cunning fingers pulling at her dirty, singed prison shift. Esmeralda opens her lips scream, only for hoarse, broken cries to leave her mouth. HE leers at this, and groans into her neck. "Mine, mine, mine forever," he mutters over and over, branding her with his acid lips. She struggles, repulsed by him, frightened by him, angered by him. "Get off me! Now!" she says, jerking beneath him.

"Your spell no longer will have hold on me, gypsy," he sneers. For a moment, he stares into those glinting eyes, those luscious, swollen lips... and is absolutely bewitched. He shifts, pinning both of her wrists down with one of his own large hands. As he drags his hand down her body, Esmeralda is paralyzed by repulsion and fear. _No, please, just stop!_ She inwardly screams, the hand now akin to fire in her mind- to be avoided at all cost.

But he ignores her pleading, forges on. His hands grip at her shift and begin to pull upward, revealing her squirming, smooth legs. His breathing hastens and he can barely hold himself up as her luscious expanse of flesh is revealed.

"You wished to let me live, to keep tormenting me with enchantments. I shall teach you the punishment for such heathen folly!" he spits out, his voice rough with arousal. His own loins swell, and there is nothing she could do but scream weakly for help as he grasps at his robes to push them away and reveal his arousal.

If he had been his usual, meticulous self, he would have heard the footsteps behind him.

But he didn't. Which is why both Phoebus and Quasimodo are able to wrench the Minister from the fallen gypsy, and slam him into the stone wall behind him.

A cry of infuriation tears from his lips, before an agonizing blow connects to his face.

Blinded and reeling from the hit, he strikes out with his arm but hits no one, as someone wrenches his hands behind his back.

The next exchanges were rapid fire, so much so he hardly knows what is occurring as handcuffs are clamped on to his wrists.

"Stay away from her!"

"Arrest him!

A tall, imposing man dressed in the crown's colors, now stands before him, reading from parchment.

"Minister, by royal decree, I hereby relieve you of your duties..."

Frollo snarls and spits in return, protesting against the charges. He does not hear the rest of the attendant's pompous words, for he instead attempts to fight his way out of their grasps, only for more men to hold him down.

His gaze snaps up to the very cause of his downfall.

The gypsy girl is pulled into an intimate embrace, with the Captain. She trembles, oh, the witch is such a good pretender, feigning her innocence.

"Have you all gone mad?!" Frollo bellows, deep voice echoing in the high rafters above as he is dragged away by the very men who once feared him.

No one speaks to the ranting, raving man that fights and struggles against their arms.

As he is dragged down the stairs, Esmeralda clings to Phoebus, trembling.

Quasimodo slowly takes her hand. "Esmeralda, it's okay, you're safe."

No response.

"He's being arrested. The king sent out a decree that he will be imprisoned. He won't hurt you again," the hunchback said, gripping at her trembling hand.

_I saved him_, Esmeralda thought, disgust filling her to the brim.

"Esmeralda? Esmeralda?!"

_Why did I save him? _

Both Phoebus and Quasimodo turn to the pale, quivering woman, concern etched on their faces.

"Are you all right?"

Esmeralda never answers their question, clinging onto them.

As one woman barely speaks to her rescuers, a man below bellows curses at his sudden enemies.

While one is saved, the other is damned.

And yet both worlds now shatter, irreparably damaged by the fire that once burned in the square.

xxx


	2. Chapter 1

Night falls quickly upon the city of Notre Dame. As the solitary rider plunges through the inky black night, he pulls his cloak tighter around his form, eyeing the streets warily.

The hollow, jarring sound of the steed's hoof-beats echoes down alleyways and streets. But the stillness of the night is interrupted by the distinct, rolling sound of thunder. _Storm's coming in_, the rider thinks, as the first drops of rain splatter against his cloak.

Soon, the cobblestones are slick with rainwater, as the clouds empty their contents onto Paris. The rabble-rousers, the prostitutes, the beggars, the crooks... all of them retreat from their usual spots into shaded alcoves, away from the stinging rain.

A bolt of lightning splits the sky, temporarily blinding all who stubbornly refuse to hurry inside. The man's grip on the reins tightened, and he quickly crosses himself. Tonight was no night to be outside, but he did have orders to follow. Orders that must be followed, or else it will be his head on the line.

Finally, after turning yet another winding corner with bated breath, the man is greeted by the imposing Palace of Justice. He audibly gulps as his eyes look up at the sharp, unforgiving spires, the harsh, sharp angles of the edifice. He rides forward to the first gate, guarded by two... well, the polite word is soldier, but the more adept word would probably be brute.

"Good evening. I am Lord Bonhomme, head attendant to his majesty. I was told that I would be expected," he says over the pouring rain.

The two men nod, and unlock the gate. "Dismount your horse, we shall bring it to the stables," one of them says curtly.

Lord Bonhomme uneasily slides off the beast, legs wobbling. He truly despises riding. He much prefers more sedate activities.

He is lead by one of the guards deeper into the entrance tunnel. Torches have been lit, but only cast a scant amount of light in the passageway.

"Has the minister been deposed?" Lord Bonhomme asks in a business-like tone.

"Yes sir. Minister Duchamps left early this morning. His quarters were cleaned out," the man says.

Bonhomme nods. "Right then. Is he... has _he_ been informed?" he says in a hushed voice.

The soldier halts, a frown appearing on his face. He turns to Bonhomme, brow knit in worry. "We have not sir. We were told by an earlier message to not let the prisoner know," he says carefully.

Bonhomme chews on the inside of his cheek. With a sudden movement of his hand, he claps the soldier, _poor nervous youth_, on his shoulder. "Well then. I will inform him then."

The soldier leads him to the first cell, and fetches a ring of keys from his belt. Bonhomme notices how the man's fingers' tremble as he inserts the key into the lock, opening the door with a heavy metallic grinding noise.

Bonhomme's nose twitches as the smell of blood, urine, and God knows what else, enter the corridor. Fighting the urge to gag, he enters the dimly lit room, where a solitary torch now burns.

A man hangs from the ceiling, arms stretched high over his body, wrists bound by metal shackles. His feet, bloody and rubbed raw, support his weight poorly. He can barely stand without the aid of the chain that binds him to the scaffolding.

He reeks of sweat and blood. Judging by the dark, dried blood that once seeped through his shirt, his wounds stretch from his back to his torso.

His head is lowered, shaggy gray hair matted and dirty.

He hadn't woken up from his sleep when Bonhomme opened the door. No. It is when Bonhomme steps closer to the skeletal man hanging on the scaffolding that his form convulses.

The man raises his head, and dark, glittering eyes meet his gaze. But Bonhomme feels a cold chill seep into his bones, not from the dank cold of the dungeon.

It was from the sheer, raw emotion, the anger that burns in his eyes like fire.

"Claude Frollo."

Xxx

Frollo blinks the blurry haze of sleep, only to see the man quickly leave the room. Pain, dull, constant pain reverberates in his bones as he attempts to move, only to feel the manacles once more chafe against his bleeding wrists.

He expects the lash to come down again. Or a new, metal trap of torture to be bound to his feet, his hands, his arms... whatever limb is ordered today. That's what consistently occurred, each day, for an eternity, when people came into his cell.

Soldiers come in once more, and he involuntarily tenses, although, from previous experience, tensing caused a much greater amount of agony on his end. He sets his jaw, too stubborn to close his eyes. He wants to see just what these brutes do to him.

Except... when the soldier comes toward him... there is no article of agony within his grasp. The other crosses behind, and Frollo's entire being prickles. Would they simply beat him with fists now? Like savages? Was that the new part of his punishment?

But he only feels a pair of hands move tentatively to the manacles which enclose his wrists. And with a small click, he falls until his bony knees slam down on the ground.

The soldiers move toward him to hoist him up, but Frollo growls, "No." It seems even after his personal hell, he could not let anyone, let alone the very men who had turned on him, assist him.

His arms feel so heavy, after spending so long suspended in air. He stifles a hiss of pain as he adjusts himself to rise from the ground, old scabs breaking as the lash-marks of yesterday, the day before that, of last week, were pulled by scant muscle and bone.

He rises to a kneeling position, head spinning. With much effort, he steps onto one foot... then two... slowly rising, berating his own weakness. His feet feel like liquid, while his limbs feel like solid, ungainly stone.

The soldiers watches as the former minister of justice struggles to stand, their eyes shifting away. Frollo's dark eyes flash wildly. What on earth was going on? Were they moving him to a different cell? _One more vile perhaps._

He staggers to his feet, gripping the sides of his dirty, thin breeches to anchor himself. The soldiers then flank him on either side, regarding him with suspicion. He nearly scoffs aloud. _Even if I were to run, who's to say I would last five minutes out in Paris in this state?_ He thinks darkly.

He attempts to walk normally, only to nearly gasp in pain as he presses his raw soles down onto the ground. His feet had been broken, but put together with some care. Still, they feel the old pains, the old, deep bruises that resulted from that particular session.

He is hobbling. It is pitiful. He nearly snarls in frustration when he stumbles yet again, nearly crashing down onto the cold flagstones. He grits his teeth. He needs to stay standing.

He struggles to step down the hall, each step a herculean labor. Everything aches. Each movement ignites a new host of maladies. Bruises, lashings, malnutrition. All caused him pain now.

He is led to the south stairwell. He schools his face to be passive, but inwardly, he is baffled. Why would they take him out of the dungeons?

After an eternity of hobbling like an invalid, he is taken to his... well, what _used to be _his... main study. He is suddenly paralyzed as his eyes flicker over the familiar cedar wood, the worn, yet sturdy chair. The clean surface of the desk is clear of any debris, any of the old parchments and tomes that he had insisted on making a permanent habitation on the desk. Everything was orderly of course, he was too fastidious to ever be less than perfect.

He is not a nostalgic man. In fact, he preferred to eliminate memories of the past in its entirety. But at that moment, such an intense wave of wistfulness crashes over him, so powerful, that his very legs tremble. Was that really him, the man that had once sat at that chair, hunched over mountains of erudite papers? Were these his own objects, did his scarred and chafed hands really touch the smooth lacquer of this desk?

He is silent, his face set grimly. _How far the mighty have fallen, _he thinks hollowly.

He hears a rustle behind him, one that causes him to jerk his head to see the stranger who had visited his cell. He stands awkwardly, as if unsure of himself. But from the color of his garments, he is a man of most high purpose. A man from the crown.

"Good evening. I had the servants prepare a meal. Would you please sit, and we may discuss some matters?" the man says, motioning to the small dining area, usually used for meetings with other magistrates. Frollo doesn't nod, doesn't refuse either. He simply moves forward, his dark eyes flashing at the stranger beneath harshly knitted brows.

He nearly collapses in the chair, then has to stifle a groan of agony as yet another of the hundreds of lacerations reopen. He grits his teeth. Whatever the man wishes to discuss, it would be done properly. Not with him wincing and squirming about like some criminal.

He sits stiffly, back still ramrod straight despite his obvious discomfort. _Old habits never die_, he thinks offhandedly, as he looked down at his plate.

Instead of bread and water, meat and mutton, soup has been placed before him. His mouth involuntarily waters. How long had it been since he had seen food like this? How long had he been in the dark, slurping at grey, tasteless trash, trash that could hardly be considered food?

The animalistic instinct, to devour, to rip into the leg of mutton like a low beast nearly overwhelms him. Instead, he carefully picks up the knife and fork, damning his own fingers for trembling. With slow, _agonizingly_ slow, movements, he slices through the meat, nearly cursing at how slow the process is when his stomach twirls painfully with hunger.

Bonhomme watches the man eat, his own face probably one of concern. The man is so thin. He had heard rumors of the former minister's punishment... but... seeing it was a much different experience.

Frollo can feel the stranger's eyes upon him. He feels like a wild animal, cornered, captive, exposed to an ogling audience. He is desperate to eat, to swallow the food whole... but he refuses to be an animal before a civilized guest.

"You said you wished to discuss something with me?" he remarks, his voice gravelly, yet harsh on the man's ears.

Bonhomme gulps. "Right. My name is Lord Bonhomme, I'm an attendant of the king."

Frollo is silent. The man obviously knew who _he_ was. _Claude Frollo. Former Minister. Soldier's whipping post._ What was the point of introducing himself? Instead he peers at him, his face as still and harsh as stone.

Frollo's silence must have unnerved the man, for he rushes through his statements in a solitary exhale of air:

"As you know, you were found guilty of abusing your position as minister, and have been serving your punishment, which to date is life in prison..."

Frollo says nothing.

Bonhomme feels sweat bead on his brow. "In light of recent events, however, his majesty King Charles VII, is most mercifully granting you a pardon, under certain conditions."

It was then that the man's head jerks up, and that he nearly drops his own fork. Frollo's eyes shine with true mystification. A pardon? Freedom from this earthly hell? His heart races with the elusive emotion of hope.

But his victory soon feels like a façade. What if this were some trick? Why ever would he be released? Choosing his words carefully, Frollo says, "Conditions?"

Bonhomme quickly nods. "You would be reinstated as minister. But you would be barred from leaving Paris, at any point, nor would you be able to come to his majesty's court. At this point in time, your position is tentative. You will be advised by one of the king's attendants-that's me, by the way," he adds sheepishly.

When Frollo still doesn't respond, Bonhomme continues. "You will be advised by me about all matters. And, his majesty adds that if there are anymore... violations made... your previous sentence will be reinstated, with no chance of pardon. Is this... clear?" Bonhomme says hesitantly.

Frollo is shocked. Absolutely paralyzed with the surreal quality of this situation. He had to have gone mad in his cell to be imagining this very exchange.

He tries to stifle his own relief. He needs to be logical. He keeps his stone-like mask upon his face, refusing to show the emotions of desperate joy that threaten to pour from his self.

"This... is a most... advantageous proposition, one that I am most grateful to be offered. Might I inquire as to why the king is willing to reinstate me to my position?" he asks in a calculative manner

Usually when men were told of their freedom, their reaction was tears of joy, relief, happiness. But Claude Frollo wasn't most men, as Bonhomme could clearly ascertain. Bonhomme clears his throat, Frollo's question clearly treading on delicate territory.

"It seemed there were some... inherent difficulties of your post which your successor was not as adept at handling," he says.

Frollo leaned back in his chair, looking every bit like the noble he once was. Ah. There it was. Incompetence on the part of his successor. He cannot help but feel smug that in this political quagmire called Paris, he is not so easily disposed of.

A cruel, cold smile spread on Frollo's face, one that made Bonhomme's face pale. The former tyrant shifts his eyes up to the attendant. "It seems as if I will accept this most gratifying offer," Frollo says slyly.

Bonhomme bobs his head once, reminding Frollo of an agitated hen. "Right. Well then, if you will please sign this document," he said, plucking a scroll from his robes.

xxx

The next hours fly by in a dizzying, surreal array of color and sound. Snatches of Bonhomme's stammering speeches ingrain themselves in his mind, while others drift in and out, passing by as fleetingly as clouds.

He is later taken up to his bedroom. Standing within the room, he feels a twinge of hatred. Someone else, an incompetent, blundering fool, had used these chambers. His chambers. It was most good that the successor was gone, else Frollo strangle the man himself for looking at, let alone sleeping, in his room.

He trudges over the carpet, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He feels so dirty, so soiled, next to the pristine finery around him.

The fire is lit, and physical warmth seeps into him. But a residual inward coldness still remains. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the four walls of that cell, can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from the countless times he had gnashed his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. When he opens his eyes, he is back, back in his sanctuary, with opulence lining the walls.

He shuffles his way to the dresser, opening the doors. His old clothes have been placed neatly into the drawers. They had been planning for his return for some time.

Instead of feeling triumphant, he feels empty though. Tired. Decrepit.

With laborious movements, he strips himself of his dirty prisoner garb. He looks down at the bloodstains, the dirt, the encrusted sweat that layered the garb, and feels repulsed.

With a small toss, the clothes land into the roaring fire, curling, disintegrating into ash.

Shouldering on his night shirt, he winces as old lash wounds sting. But he was too tired to bind his wounds tonight, too tired to think anymore.

He collapses onto his bed, vanishing into darkness as soon as his head sinks into the pillow.

xxx

Thanks for reading! Please review if you want! :) -Cgal


	3. Chapter 2

_Fire. Heat. Unbearable heat. _

_He was to fall towards that blaze that inferno, Notre Dame herself crumbling, sacrificing parts of herself to damn him to the fiery blazes of hell. _

_Then, a hand reaches out to steady him. To quite literally pull him from the abyss. A small, feminine hand. _

_The temptress yanked, and he fell forward atop her, onto his small captive. His dark eyes pored her beautiful face, her bewitching features. Her eyes widen in fear, as the magnitude of her actions crashes upon her. _

_And Frollo can do nothing but stare, but let his sin control his actions. And he crushes her lips to his in a fierce battle of dominance..._

Frollo's eyes shoot open and he has to physically grip the covers in order to remind himself where he is. He was not on the bell-tower, vengeance in his veins. He was not in the dungeons awaiting another beating.

_You are reinstated. You have been pardoned by his majesty, and have been given some freedom. You are no longer a prisoner,_ he mechanically lists in his mind. Like he once did with battle drills, logically sorting out his thoughts in his mind assists him in assimilating such things into his system. And now more than ever, when all things felt unreal... it was entirely necessary to painstakingly catalogue each detail he knew...or else...

Or else he would think himself mad.

Sunlight streams in through the windows, creating such a blissful scene in his chambers. Everything is silence, as if the world has vanished around his bedroom. The current atmosphere does not assist his sanity. In fact, it makes him doubt it even more. How could he possibly be in such a peaceful realm, when everything before had been pain?

It was when he moved from the bed, when those old stings and pains returned, that he felt more grounded. There was the pain; there was the agony he knew. Everything is much more tangible.

He was told to sleep, regain his strength. But at this moment, the realm of sleep does not hold as much peace as he originally thought. He grimly smiles. For so long, he had desired a full night of sleep in his own bed, not hanging from the ceiling. And now, when he finally receives such luxuries... now was when sleep became rife with... dreams. Memories.

Frollo shut his eyes, mentally forcing the memories back. No, he could not dwell on the past, could not dwell on the remembrances that now haunted his sleep. He needed to move on. To forget. To sentence that part of his past to languish in utter oblivion.

So instead of remembering her face, of seeing her eyes, he shuffles lamely to the washroom. Heated water already had been placed there, a sign that the servants have not lost their dutiful obedience to their true lord and master. The grim smile returns. Old habits die hard, even for the staff.

He carefully shrugs off the nightshirt, repulsed when he sees more bloodstains dappling the inside of the garment. Frollo crosses to the bath, crossing in front of the mirror.

He turns to see a corpse staring back. A living corpse. His dark eyes peer at the figure in the mirror, unrecognizable to him. He couldn't be that man the mirror. Did not have the shaggy, unkempt hair that fell from his head wildly like straw, did not have the purple green bruises mottling his body. That could not be his own ribcage jutting out from his sallow skin, nor his own skin, cut to ribbons by the whip.

He stares at the man, refusing to believe it is his own self. Repulsion, disgust fills his frame, and the man's nostrils flare. What was this disgusting creature before him? It could not be man, for its eyes were too wild, too inclined of lower, base actions. But no beast, no beast he had ever seen before, could be so stooped, yet so unbending, pitiful, yet terrifying.

Frollo slowly turns from the mirror, and steps into the bath, audibly crying out in agony as his wounds burned in the hot water. As he sinks down into the bath, he closes his eyes, wishing he could be in blissful oblivion.

Xxx

After shaving, clipping his hair, and binding his wounds, Claude Frollo can almost look in the mirror and say he is human. Almost, because he still sees how sickly he looks, how utterly diminished he is.

Scowling at his own reflection, Frollo put on his robes, donning the garb of so long ago. He freezes for a brief moment, staring at his reflection. He suddenly feels so... unworthy of the stately garb.

_Justice must be wrought out by men, not by animals,_ he had once said so imperiously. Now it seems that the monster must cling to his robes for dear life, to stay out of the hellish pit whence he came.

At least he had the good sense to gain some medical knowledge during his youth. He loathes when other people touched him, and to be at the mercy of a quack while he was at his weakest sickens him.

He is habitually fastidious in his appearance. So the sight of his sallow, skull-like face hovering above the impeccable robes was one to make him sigh in irritation. He did not want to be some oddity on display for the court. He already would be attacked on all sides for his return. He had no friends, as proved by how his supposed allies distanced themselves from him as soon as he was arrested by the guard that night on the bell-tower.

His stomach suddenly ached. It seemed he could not consume enough, he was so hungry.

With a parting glance at the hollow man staring at him, he departs from his chambers.

xxx

When he enters his study, he is greeted by the sight of Bonhomme at his post, ready for orders.

"Minister Frollo! I trust you slept well?" he says, giving him a careful smile.

Frollo wishes to scoff. Instead, he says, "Very well."

"Are you sure you wish to resume so soon, minister? I understand if you need a few days to recover," Bonhomme says.

Whatever kindness that is implied in his tone is immediately discarded by the judge. He quickly decimates any sort of belief that this man is to be trusted. He had placed a minute amount of faith in a select few before... the _incident_, and each one of them betrayed him at the trial, quick to testify against him.

"I see no point. The king did not pardon me so I may luxuriate in my chambers and fall victim to sloth," he says sharply.

Bonhomme gives another bobbing nod. "Right then."

There was that phrase again. _Right then._ Probably an indicator of the man's anxiety. Frollo files away that conjecture for when knowing the attendant's nervous habits may prove useful.

He crosses past the man, and pulls out his chair. Slowly, he eases himself down at his desk, shooting a hostile stare at Bonhomme. The message is clear. Move or suffer.

Bonhomme bends to his will... for now. He soon sinks uneasily into the chair across from Frollo's desk, eyeing the minister with parchment and quill in hand.

Frollo feels a surge of indignation at seeing the quill and paper. He had fought and schemed his way to the apex of Parisian society, only to be reduced to an apprentice who must be monitored at all times. He bites back a hostile comment, choosing instead to glare down at the first report laid upon _his _desk.

As he scans over the parchment, he is appalled at the utter lack of logic his predecessor had. No night guards? Prostitution rampant? The city's borders left unattended? Instantly, fury rises within him. Imbecile! They had chosen an absolute imbecile to replace him, to take his precious city and soil it further into filth.

"Quite abysmal indeed. Tell me. Who was responsible for monitoring this... invalid's actions?" he says harshly. Bonhomme frowned in response.

"To be quite frank minister, you never had such monitoring in your station. We thought... we should continue it with your successor."

Frollo resists the urge the gnash his teeth. His precious city, which he had labored over to reduce the rabble and crime... has fallen victim to those exact forces to a worse extent.

"Well then. First order of business. The city borders must be contained. I need the captain of the guard in here at once. Also, seeing as there are a grave amount of inconsistencies in enforcement behavior, all the troops must be evaluated immediately," he said. Such a look of grim determination appears on his face, that Bonhomme himself feared him.

Frollo rises. He needs to settle into his old routine. Fit back into the life that was torn from him. So, with not a shred of restraint, he barks out, "Boy! In here, now!"

The soldier guarding his chambers is barely older than fifteen and stammers, "Y-yes sir?"

"Summon the captain of the guard."

The youth nods. "Yes sir." Then he departs.

Bonhomme all the while scribbled notes, and the scratching noise of quill on parchment suddenly grates against Frollo's ears, a constant reminder of his failings. Gritting his teeth, Frollo turns back to the desk, reading over the reports.

"Tell me now, Bonhomme. Had my predecessor infiltrated the Court of Miracles? Is that viper's nest disassembled?" he drones, attempting to find the very thing he asked in the numerous sheets of parchment.

He only hears silence. Frollo looks up. "Would you answer the question?" he says dryly.

"I did. You weren't looking. No. The Court of Miracles is still... there," Bonhomme says.

Frollo's eyes widen in shock... then narrow. How could the blundering fool not even have the sense to take apart the hub of criminal activity? Had the world gone mad? "Excuse me?" he says softly yet dangerously.

Bonhomme's brow knit together. Although fearful of the minister, he did hold some power over him. "After your exile, the king thought it best to allow the gypsies to remain in the Court of Miracles. There was no other option to house them, seeing as most innkeepers still harbor resentment. We attempted to affix them in homes, but even sanctions were not enough to change a significant portion of the population's minds. There was no other option," he repeats.

Frollo stands up quickly, hands tense upon his desk. "No other option? Bonhomme, do you realize what happens in the Court of Miracles?"

The attendant was silent. Frollo turns to the adjoining window to the balcony, eyes gazing down to the streets of Paris. For a moment, he simply stares, attempting to calm down the rising bile in his throat, the utter disgust at the stupidity of these men.

"Illegal sale of stolen goods. Constant drinking. Gambling. Prostitution. The Court of Miracles is hidden away enough that the gypsies believe they are outside the jurisdiction of the law. A very dangerous prospect indeed." He turns to Bonhomme, face hardened. "Now, at least assure me now that the Court of Miracles has at least been patrolled by soldiers."

Bonhomme's continued silence affirms the worst. Frollo's face twists into one of absolute loathing. "My word," he swears, fists clenching.

"We attempted to send guards... but many came up harassed. Injured. They didn't talk about what had happened." He adds quickly.

"They are soldiers, not farmers! If they wished to be _un-_harassed they should have stayed in the fields!" he spits out with absolute derision.

In a flurry of movement, Frollo crosses to Bonhomme, hands crossed behind him, looking all the while like a militant soldier of the law. His mind works through the issue.

"If they have no other place in Paris, perhaps they should... emigrate," he says with a casual flick of his hand.

Bonhomme's eyes widen. "Frollo, you cannot be serious." Well, if he was, the man had to be mad then.

Frollo turns to him, that joyless smirk upon his lips. "I am here to mend your city, sire. The Court of Miracles is the poisonous cancer that has rooted itself in Paris's body. And what happens to cancers?"

Bonhomme didn't say anything. With that slow simpering smile, Frollo says, "They will be cut away."

Turning rapidly from him, it occurs to Frollo he may need to use a more diplomatic method. Just in case his position wasn't entirely secure.

"The gypsies have griped since the beginning of their habitation in Paris of the people's disrespect. A change in venue would benefit both us and them," he says.

"Frollo, what you suggest simply cannot be done."

"How is the work of justice, work according to God's laws, not able to be done? Need I remind you, of the words of Mark." With that grim, hardened face, Frollo continues, deeply intoning his words. "If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It's better to enter eternal life with only one hand than to go into the unquenchable fires of hell with two hands.'"

Bonhomme shifts awkwardly in his seat. He had heard rumors of the minister's piousness. And experiencing it firsthand was... well, some may say impressive. Others may say terrifying.

So it is with some hesitation that Bonhomme then remarked, "Unfortunately, while what you suggest is most noble, it is physically impossible to force out all the gypsies. The manpower and monetary funds needed are simply too scant for such an endeavor. The king wishes his chest to remain bountiful for times of need. Your mission, Frollo, while a service, is hardly a necessary option."

Silence falls onto both men as each regards the other with wary suspicion. Frollo has to prevent himself from lashing out at the man. For one of the first times in his political career, Frollo had been refused. Refused in an endeavor to save his beloved Paris.

But to object would mean a foray back into the pit of despair. And what good could come of that?

So he chooses to be stoic, let no emotion appear in his eyes. He instantly remembers his early years in this position, as a young man, appeasing others to finally reach the peak.

He would bide his time. And Bonhomme would relent to his wishes. The man simply needed... a more diplomatic approach.

"If these are the king's wishes, I have no choice to obey," he says, and he notices how Bonhomme breathes a sigh of relief.

"Right then," Bonhomme says, and a knock is heard at the door.

"Enter," Frollo drawls, and the youth comes back in... followed by Phoebus de Chateaupers.

Frollo has to stifle himself from yelling an oath of frustration. No. This was his captain of the guard? The man who willingly disobeyed orders?  
Judging by the way the Captain's eyes widen, the man had not been expecting him to be here.

Phoebus is silent for a moment, and Frollo uses the opportunity to dismiss the youth. If the captain starts shooting off his mouth... he does not want the lower ranks to get any unsavory ideas.

When Phoebus finally finds his voice again, he meets the famed icy stare of Judge Claude Frollo. "I had heard... rumors that you were back. But I never expected to see you behind that desk again," he said, his voice even but still betraying some shock.

"Ah. Well, the means behind my return are of no matter to you Captain. I will not ask how a man who was to be beheaded for insubordination is now standing before me, head intact and armor restored. And in return," he adds in a lilting voice. "...you will not ask of my path," he says.

Phoebus is absolutely shocked, too shocked to even raise his voice in outrage. Bonhomme seizes the opportunity and bounds from his seat to put himself in between the two men.

"Good morning, Captain Phoebus. Lord Nicholas Bonhomme, attendant to his majesty King Charles VII," he says, with a perfunctory bow that Phoebus mechanically mirrors.

"Right then. Shall we begin?" Bonhomme said, eyes shifting nervously between the two of them.

Frollo crosses behind his desk and sinks into his seat, eyes never leaving the blonde brute's face. A host of unpleasant memories come flooding back, ones that set his teeth on edge. Memories of his betrayal and insubordination. _Memories of... her fickle favor. Don't think about that, for God's sakes!_ He chastises himself, clenching his fist so tightly the nails dig sharply into his palms. He could not feel... this covetous emotion... envy for what the captain possessed.

_As soon as she had wriggled out of his grasp, she flung herself in his arms, his own prize slipping from his grasp so easily. _The memory is brief only a few seconds. But he crushes it down, down into the place where such loathsome visions resided.

Business. He needs to focus. For a moment, he debates with himself on whether or not to dismiss the man. Starting over would be most difficult with his former betrayer in a position of power.

Except... from the look of respect in Bonhomme's eyes, Phoebus de Chateaupers, at least in this era of administration, is valuable. And seeing as Bonhomme was so vocal about the king's preferences before... Frollo could not see how he would be able to rid himself of the man.

So he simply remained silent, and went about with business with restrained derision.

"From these reports, Captain, it seems the troops have been most unproductive," he begins.

Phoebus tries to be passive, but his temper was returning. Frollo can sense it in the air. Yet he continues.

"From now on, the standards of the guard must be elevated. I wish for you to begin a mandatory evaluation, which I will oversee. If a man so much as puts forward an average performance, he will be demoted."

"And what are these standards that my men will be evaluated? Simply... your own?" he says, unable to keep the sarcasm from entering his voice.

Frollo simply stares into the Captain's face, restraining the mercurial anger that burns deep within. His gaze flickers to Bonhomme. From the guarded, and reproachful look in his eyes, it is clear that Frollo is to not lurch over and throttle the captain into the ground. It had only been only been mere minutes, and already Frollo desired the attendant to choke to death on his own quill and parchment. Had he been alone, Frollo would have sent the captain to be given at least twenty-five lashes for such a disrespectful comment.

How could it be that he was given so much power, and yet had so little simultaneously?

"Yes. As minister, it is my duty, given by the crown itself, to hold my subordinates to the standards I see fit. You will obey, Captain. And you will commence the evaluation this afternoon, no later than noon." He says, eyes cold.

The Captain of the Guard simply stand there dumbly, mouth opening and closing. His face turns beet red, betraying the absolute anger in his veins.

But, Frollo is pleased to see, that after a few moments, the old behavior instilled by years of militant battle training at last had their effect. "Yes sir." He says roughly.

"Good then. On your way Captain. There is so much to do before we begin."

"Begin what sir?" Phoebus asks, already dreading the answer.

Looking at him squarely in the face, the reinstated minister Frollo drawls, "Begin the process of purifying Paris."

Xxx

Frollo spent the next week navigating the bureaucratic elements of his return. Stacks of parchment were signed; seals were made; and certain members of the troops were... _dismissed _quite suddenly.

Frollo hadn't ventured out into Paris. Not yet. He chooses to remain in the sanctuary of the Palace of Justice. While he argued it was for the sake of his work, that there simply was too much paperwork to even think of leaving... a part of him, a small, yet vocal, part of him, was uneager to venture out into a city which had changed quite a great deal since his... _departure_. Gypsies running amok? Soldiers abandoning their posts? Prostitutes lining the alleyways in the day? Each new discovery left the minister repulsed.

There was a sick sense of pride in that it had been due to his departure that the city had fallen so deeply into sin.

But, finally, after days on end of Bonhomme's exceptional meddling he had been pushed to the brink. Frollo rose from his seat. "I think... I shall ride into the city. See just how many issues have arose for myself," Frollo says, attempting to be casual.

But Bonhomme's eyes widen. "Minister... if... if that's what you wish... but... I have to request the Captain of the Guard ride with you. I have no doubt that you will stay sir... it's just that the Crown has certain, ah, stipulations."

Frollo expects just as much. To be treated like a prisoner, not a liberated man. He masks his scorn of the entire situation effortlessly. "Well then, I shall go to the stables. I expect the Captain to be there immediately. Tell him the Minister requests a patrol." He says dryly. With that comment, he exits the room, giving his orders to the stammering youth guarding his door once more.

Xxx

As Frollo carefully steps outside, he tries to mentally adjust himself. He could not appear weak, stumbling out like some ungainly creature into the sun. Not in front of the very troops he struggles to control.

The dark, stone hall of the Palace of Justice was gated off, leading into the field where the stables were. The two guards outside the gates turn, and instantly pale as he descends down the hall, looking very much like the ghost of their nightmares.

"Open the gate," Frollo ordered.

Without delay, one of the men unlocks it, then swings the creaking metal open. With only a short, curt nod as a response, Frollo steps outside the walls of his beloved Palace.

The grounds were as he remembered them. Orderly, perhaps a little too dry. The crunch of the beaten soil beneath his feet suddenly overwhelms him, bringing back memories, of both his boyhood and later years. He has to fight the urge to kneel, dirty his robes and place his fingers through the grainy land.

Instead, he drives on to the stables. His horse, he had been told, is still present. The inky black steed, that terrifying monster had apparently been unruly to say the least. The beast had not let anyone else but his true master ride him, so was in fact, useless.

If Frollo had been confronted with such an issue, he would have put the beast out of its misery. It took up space, it was a nuisance to put up with.

But... the previous minister was much more of a coward in that respect. And for once, Frollo is grateful for the nameless man's weak sensitivities.

Frollo enters the stable, the smell of dry hay and the sweat of beasts meeting his nostrils. The scent is familiar, routine. Frollo breathes it in, allowing himself a moment of simple stillness in the relatively peaceful place. It was here he had retreated as a youth, away from the stifling lectures of his father. It was here he had worked and toiled in the summers. It was here that after a long day of chasing the guilty through the streets that he could finally relent.

The place is silent, other than the soft noises of animals nickering and settling into their spaces. After the flurry of the previous week, with constant interruptions... it is a kind of peace that was most welcome.

He shakes off that oddly comforting feeling, setting about to do his business. With slow, measured steps, he walks a familiar beaten path, from the entrance, down past the other stalls, to the larger one at the end. His horse finally comes into view, still the black fearsome creature it had been trained to be.

The beast lets out a snort, a sign of aggression. Giving the beast a wry smirk, Frollo reaches towards the opposite wall, where his reins and saddle still hung. Usually, he would command one of the stable-boys, poor, wretched youths, to saddle the beast for him.

But... today was much different than the days of old, wasn't it?

He places a palm out towards the beast... and lets out a solitary, shrill whistle.

The beast's tense posture relaxes, melting away at the sound of his true master's call. Frollo's lips quirk upwards as he carefully pats the beasts flanks, using slow, careful strokes usually reserved for grooming.

Placing his hand in front of the horse's nostrils, Frollo lets the beast smell him, become reacquainted. A small shudder passes through the horse's muscles, entirely felt by Frollo's left hand upon the beast's flank.

With slow, deliberate movements meant to help, not harm, Frollo placed the saddle and reins upon his beast. "You've gotten fat. Can't afford that in the middle of such troubled times," Frollo murmurs, patting the beast.

Unaware of the insult, the horse softly whinnies, a sound of contentment.

With gentle, practiced movements, Frollo leads the creature out of its stall. With a fluid movement of his palm, he strokes its mane, calming any agitation.

It is then Frollo realizes just how long his dutiful Captain was taking. Suddenly irritated, he scowls, calling over one of the servants sharply.

"Where is the good Captain Phoebus?" he says sardonically, in a low dangerous voice.

The boy gulps. "He... he's coming sir was just a little late," he stammers.

It was then the gallant, gold-armored Phoebus chose to make his appearance.

"Captain," Frollo says sharply, skipping any sort of greeting.

"Sir?" Phoebus said mechanically.

"Would you please enlighten the both of us how you could possibly be late, when just the previous morning, I was adamant about the punctuality of the troops?" he drawls, eyes narrowing.

Phoebus isn't intimidated; instead, without missing a beat, he says, "My wife had a false alarm. We thought she was in labor, it really was just stomach pains. My apologies."

Frollo suddenly feels as if he were slammed in the chest. _Wife?_ A vision of Esmeralda, running, then clinging on to the Captain that day on the bell-tower springs into his mind, unwanted and vexing. He feels as if he couldn't breathe. Anger spikes in his veins, hot and thick, and with a harsh staccato snarl, Frollo says, "That is hardly any reason!"

Both Phoebus and the stable-boy blink, mostly confused by the outburst. Frollo does not notice. Instead he is temporarily blinded by visions of her. _Visions of her in white. Visions of her with that brainless titan in between her legs. Visions of her rounded with his child, body distorted by the Captain's seed. _

The mental images flood him in waves, wracking his body to the point where he physically cannot breathe normally. The temptation to throw the captain to the ground, beat him into submission is so strong, he can already see himself in his mind's eye lurching forward.

"Minister? Minister Frollo?"

The small voice wrenches him back to reality. And suddenly, he is in the present, staring at a baffled Captain and frightened youth. The youth had spoken, quivering in absolute terror.

Frollo then realizes just how... wrong everything felt. He couldn't... he couldn't feel this anger, this rage that threatened to burn all in its path. No. He has no right to. She was his wife? Good riddance to a lying, manipulative whore. Perhaps she would cuck-hold the captain, at last punish him for his disobedience. And then, he would throw her to the streets, shame the whore for what she was.

He shouldn't feel this... possessive envy. The gnawing sensation burrowing within his gut, that anger which flares each time the Captain moves. He shouldn't feel like he has some claim to her, when she was obviously no prize to be claimed in the first place.

His face hardens, and he wills his body to stop clenching its fists, to stop shaking with rage. "In the future Captain..." he begins, his voice still rough. He blinks, shutting his eyes momentarily to compose his self. "In the future Captain, I expect you to be punctual. No matter _what_ circumstances. Are we clear?" he said, forcing his voice to be... not soft, never gentle, but certainly quieter than his maddened bark of before.

Phoebus blinks once. Twice. Frollo counts three blinks of mystification before the man answers, "Yes sir."

Frollo doesn't even nod, he can't trust his own body to make the appeasing movement. He turns back to his horse and mounts the beast.

Staring down at the still inert figures, he says in a surprisingly even tone, "Come. We have much to do. I will not be delayed by your incompetence."

With those words, he turns his horse to the entrance, bringing the beast to a trot. Trying to think of nothing but the physical act of riding, trying to fade into the simple actions.

Trying to force his telling thoughts to disappear into oblivion.

Xxx

It's their eyes that burrow into his soul.

Frollo is used to being looked at with terror, with horrified awe. But the eyes he saw now were much, much different.

The faces of the peasants at first twist in confusion. Then they pale, becoming as white as freshly fallen snow. But the eyes are certainly the most telling. Frollo sees eyes widen with absolute fear, but not the fear of before. Instead, it was the fear of men coming into contact with a ghost. For the rumors of his death, although most certainly wrong, were true to them. And if he is here, he must be a specter.

He tries to ignore the hush of the street when he rides down the winding passageways with his steed. _Silence is good. All the better to think_, he thinks.

But... this silence is unnerving, not calming.

He chooses to distract his self. "Captain, tell me, what precautions have been made against street vagrants so far?"

As the Captain listlessly rattles off the recent efforts, Frollo finds himself unfocused, eyes flickering over the various misconduct occurring. A prostitute, bold thing, propositioning a man in a side alley. A gypsy, subtly rifling through bags. A merchant selling clearly expired foodstuff.

So much... immorality. He grinds his teeth, mechanically responding, tersely giving new orders to the Captain at his side.

It was then he heard the high pealing bells of a tambourine.

In an instant, his face blanches and cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. _Her dance. Her sinful dance. Her red-clad body so close to him, so close to touching... those succulent lips hovering, gingerly touching his nose... and the humiliation afterward. _

He is no longer the master of his own body. Frollo pulls the reins and rides toward the sound, that maddening sound that echoes in his ears each night.

When he turns the corner, all he sees are two young gypsy brats fighting over the damnable instrument.

He can only stare for a moment... until he hears the hoof-beats of Phoebus's steed come towards him.

"Minister?" Phoebus questions, staring at the paralyzed man.

What was he supposed to say? He had once more let the wench tug on his sensibilities. She wasn't even there, for god's sakes, and she was still meddling in his affairs.

Phoebus still expectedly looks at the minister's blanched face, expecting some sort of answer.

_She wouldn't be out on the streets if she were pregnant with the Captain's child,_ Frollo reasons, his hands still clenching into fists on the reins.

"I assumed... there was rabble going on. I was mistaken," he says, and even he has to admit how pitiful the explanation is.

Phoebus's eyebrows shoot up, and his normally placid features twist into an expression of bafflement.

But the solider chooses not to push the issue. "So, you were saying, about vagrants?"

Frollo forces himself to look at the Captain, to forget the sound of those high pealing bells. To stop thinking about the way his pulse quickened, in both fear and joy, at the very sound of a commoner's instrument.

Xxx

The morning went by, thankfully, without further interruption. Routine. Order. Discipline. The familiar mantra repeats over and over in his mind as Frollo keeps driving on into the city.

As the sun begins to dip low on the horizon, Frollo rides his way into the heart of the city.

He stops the horse's even gait when Notre Dame came into view. The colossal temple to the Lord still stood, despite his actions months before. No funeral pyre stands in the square now, only gypsies attempting to sell their wares.

It is irrational, but he feels a chill in the heated air. A chill caused by his own aversion to the very statues that adorn Notre Dame herself.

Phoebus drones on, giving a rundown of all the very things he had desired to catalogue. But to his regret, only half his mind listens and files away each of the man's comments.

The other half is fixated on the bells that now rang into the square. Was Quasimodo still... there?

His own ward had betrayed him. But, if he thought about it, was it really unexpected that the weak willed boy would succumb to the witch's charms?

The only thing that was unexpected was that Frollo's own manipulations had failed catastrophically, causing the boy to lash out at his own master.

The morbid temptation to see the same scene of his absolute downfall, the bell-tower, temporarily overwhelms hm. But he soon pulls back, reminding himself to forget and move away.

Xxx

The rest of the ride was spent in mutual silence. Frollo's dark eyes peers over the citizens of Paris, feeling very much like a ghost among men.

At last, they return to the Palace of Justice. As Frollo slips back into his study with the Captain in tow, the placid, numb sensation that he had managed to construct around his self was quite violently replaced by irritation, as Lord Bonhomme stood up from his post, greeting him. Gritting his teeth to restrain the exasperated cry from flinging itself from his mouth, Frollo strides past him as if he were nothing but air.

He sits at his desk, and harshly barks out instructions for his Captain, trying to ignore the scratching sounds of the attendant's quill.

But the scratching sounds never came. Instead, Bonhomme stood from his post and claps the Captain on the shoulder, as if they were companions.

"Captain, I believe congratulations are in order for you and your lady wife," Bonhomme says, his face splitting into a smile.

Yet again, Frollo feels a surge of damnable rage. Rage isn't specific enough though, as the poisonous tendrils of _jealousy _seize his heart in a terrible vise. _Jealousy for the husband of a whore. How pathetic,_ he thinks viciously, trying to stop the clamor in his blood.

Phoebus smiles dumbly, and says, "Well, I wish I could accept it, but Fleur had a false alarm. No baby yet."

_Fleur?!_ The minister is startled from his thoughts of restraint, eyes widening. Phoebus hears the creak from Frollo's chair, and his eyes meet with the Minister's alarmed ones.

But Bonhomme remains ignorant, saying, "Ah yes. It's good to have children so soon in a marriage. I am sure the elder Lady Gondalier will be most pleased."

"At last," Phoebus quips, and Bonhomme laughs.

Frollo rises from his seat, each muscle tense. "Will you please excuse me?" he mutters, and he tears away from them, exiting into the darkened room adjacent.

His breaths are labored. Esmeralda... is not the Captain's wife. The singular fact burns in his skull, repeated over and over until the words were all that consumed him.

She was out there. She was not... his. He hates the relief that now floods his soul, hates how attached he is to her. He is disgusted by how his pulse quickens at the very realization that she is not anyone else's.

He shuts his eyes while standing at the window, attempting to block out these alarming thoughts. Of course he had thought of her in his hell on earth. How could he not, when she had been the very being that had put him there?

But while he had passed out in pain, mentally screaming her name in hatred... in other, quieter, lonelier moments, he imagined her face. Nothing else, just her serene face, peering at him. Her green eyes flashing in the darkness of his cell. Her red-lips, not smiling, but not frowning either. Simply passive.

But he was no longer in the confines of his cell. He was in civilization. He needs... he needs to not feel. To go back to the way things were, before she so violently and carelessly upset the meticulously balanced fortress that encapsulated his life.

So he shuts his eyes, no longer seeing the blood-red sunset streaking across the sky. He tries to attain numbness, to cut away the cancer rooting itself in his mind, in his soul.

Except at that moment, the Captain chooses to interrupt his moment of solitude. "You thought I was married to her, weren't you?" he says accusingly.

Frollo turns from the windowpanes, and stares at the Captain. His face is illuminated only by the sun's dying light, with half his body in absolute darkness.

Frollo's first reaction is to deny the very affliction of his soul. "To whom, Captain?"

"To Esmeralda," Phoebus says, and the very name pierces his heart more quickly than any dagger could. It was curious, that it was a name, a simple conjuration of syllables and consonants that sent an icy chill down his spine. Murderers, floggings, absolute evil; that held no fear for him. But her name...(he still did not utter it in his mind) paralyzed him incredibly.

Frollo cannot for the life of him find his own voice. So Phoebus decides to go on.

"She's gone, Frollo. She left the city months ago."

The admission is akin to ice water being thrown upon him. Frollo is rendered mute by the comment.

Frollo feels cold. Gone. She was gone. He would never set eyes upon her red-lipped smile, never see her green eyes flash in absolute defiance. His eyes glaze over as every movement of hers, every proud toss of her raven hair, every step of her bare feet against cold stone flashed before him.

Wasn't it better this way? It was. She would no longer hold his soul captive in her fiendish-_beautiful, soft, beguiling_- hands.

Why did he suddenly feel so hollow then, as if his lifeblood were sapped from his veins?

"She will no longer meddle in the affairs of justice then," he feels himself saying.

Another flash of memory. Her defiantly standing upon the stage, knife in hand crying out in a shrill voice for justice. _Stop, stop, stop!_ He thinks savagely, pushing, crushing the thoughts to the back of his skull. It alarms him just how present the witch is in his mind. Was this her spell? Tormenting him till the end of his days? How could she not be a cunning sorceress if every thought of his was of her, even when she was gone?

The minister's face is turned away, no longer facing the Captain. But he hears the Captain's next words quite clearly:

"Will that be all sir?"

He gives a curt nod, no longer trusting his own voice. He hears several steps, and the closing of the heavy door.

He exhales, trying to let go of the poisonous thoughts that had led to his downfall. Trying to breathe out the venom she had inserted in his veins.

He closes his eyes once more, and tries to become stone.

xxx

Thanks for reading! Please review if you want! -Cgal


	4. Chapter 3

_Fire. Heat. Unbearable heat._

_Esmeralda saw him. They locked eyes. He was going to fall towards the fiery pit that once claimed her life. _

_Hands, her own traitorous hands reached out to him. And his claws gripped at her. _

_And he was on top of her, pressing into her insistently, cornering her into the stone floors. She was squirming, she was screaming, no one was coming, why could no one hear her? _

_His face... oh his face was terrible. His smile seemed feral, a wild beast cornering his prey. _

_She screamed as his hands reached for her clothes._

Esmeralda jolts up from her sleep, a scream fighting its way out of her throat. Her hands claw at the ground, trying to get away, trying to save herself.

Then, a small bleating noise. Then a horse's whinny. And Esmeralda realizes where she is.

She had fallen asleep next to the river she had been following. She had sat down to rest... when sleep had overtaken on her.

Sighing in absolute frustration, Esmeralda relaxes her clenched fists, which had torn the grass from the earth.

Djali bleats again, and nuzzled next to her, his brown eyes peering up at her, as if to comfort her.

"You should've waked me," she says, her voice hoarse from screaming. She swallows, and then rubs off the dirt that now stained her hands. She had to get going. She had to move, before she became paralyzed by her own fear. Before the darkness of her own dreams completely unmotivated her to move, let alone walk.

Esmeralda pulls herself up, and moves to Skylla, the white steed that now nickers and snorts at her. She smiles as a happy memory for once enters into her mind.

_"__She's an absolute darling this one,"_ Phoebus had said, handing her the reins to the horse.

_"__You don't have to do this,"_ she protested, even though her hands had already gotten a tight grip on the reins. She was so beautiful... absolutely sweet too, judging by the tender way the mare nickered and blew air upon her hand.

Phoebus had smiled. _"She's yours. She was only going to be used for breeding in the stables. But... I feel like you two will hit it off much better than she would with a stallion,"_ he joked.

Esmeralda pats the horse's flank, and kept walking along the river. "Come on," she says softly, and Djali trudges with her, the three travelers walking along the worn path.

It isn't long until a clamoring noise meets her ears, much more manmade than the burbling sound of the river. Heart leaping in her chest, Esmeralda grips at her dagger, and looks behind her to see a cart bumping and creaking along the road.

The wagon, pulled by a hearty stallion, soon makes its way alongside her. A man and woman, dressed in threadbare clothing look down to her.

"Hello there mademoiselle! Where are you headed?" the man calls out, eyes peering at her from beneath his straw hat.

Esmeralda forces herself to relax her death grip on her dagger. "Just into Paris, monsieur," she replies.

A grin spreads on his face. "What a coincidence! So are Marg and me," he exclaims, patting the matronly woman on his left. She ducks under his hand, and pinches her husband's (Esmeralda was assuming they were married) cheek.

"Yes. We are. Now, dearie, would you like to travel with us?" Marg says abruptly.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I've got my own ride," Esmeralda says, patting the horse's flank.

"Come on! We have plenty of room in here. Plus, it's dangerous for a woman to be traveling alone," Marg remarks with a sniff.

Esmeralda mulls it over quickly, not wanting to waste their time. It was true; their wagon was spacious. Plus, she feels so much more weary after her nightmares. It had been a while since she had last spoken to someone who didn't simply bleat in response.

"All right then, if it's still fine with you," Esmeralda says, gesturing to the couple.

Marg and the man vigorously nod, and with a pull of the reins, the cart slows to a stop. "Just tie your horse to the back. He's quite the beauty," Marg exclaims.

"She is," Esmeralda subtly corrects, giving her an appreciative glance as she climbs into the wagon. Still weary of the strangers, she keeps her dagger on hand, just in case. "What brings you to Paris?" Esmeralda asks.

"Looking for work with this idiot." Marg says, pointing at her husband who simply grumbles in response. Esmeralda has to stifle a giggle.

"We were farmers. But, to be quite frank, the only farming he ever managed to do was a half grown turnip," she snorts.

"Oi! We were doing fine, till this past winter!" the man protests.

Marg gives Esmeralda a wink. "Well... fine is relative. Look at the Fondaliers! They grew so much wheat they were practically givin' it away!" she cries out, smacking him on the arm.

"The Fondaliers bribed Lord Rousseau into getting more land, and you know it!" the man says, slipping into a smattering of low-voiced grumbles.

As the two argue, Esmeralda smiles to herself. There was something so familiar, so warming about their banter. As her eyes flicker over the rolling green countryside, she let Marg's shrill voice and Bruno's gruff one float over her, the sound of it somehow much more soothing than the stifling quiet of solitude.

But she hears a change in the woman's tone. Feeling a pair of eyes fixed on her, she turns to see the farmer's wife looking expectedly at her.

"I'm sorry, what did you say again? I was distracted," Esmeralda replies apologetically.

"Silly girl! I said, what brings you to Paris?"

A personal question. Esmeralda remembers a time when she wasn't wary of divulging her past with strangers.

But then again, her past hadn't been as laden with peril.

"I have family in the city. Paris was my home for the longest time..." she says carefully.

But Marg would not stop prodding. "Why did you leave?"

Her throat is suddenly dry, and yet, it's alarming how casual Esmeralda's tone became.

"I was getting stir-crazy. Needed to travel for a bit. Gypsies are quite nomadic," she says, winking at the couple. Grinning wide even as memories of ash, of his biting fingers and rasping voice, of blazing fire, flood her mind.

Marg squints at her, as if Esmeralda's life history could be discerned like some small freckle on her visage. "It was a man, wasn't it?" she says sympathetically, reaching over to pat one of Esmeralda's hands clasped at her knee.

Esmeralda has to stifle a snort. Well, sure, it had been a man. But to be quite frank... he seemed more monster than human. "No such luck, I'm afraid! I'd like to meet the man who would inspire me to go on _my _journey," she lies smoothly. There was once a time she hated lying. Now... it just feels too easy.

"Your journey? Where have you been?" she asks, eyebrows rising.

She smirks. At last, something she could talk about. "I left Paris... hmmm, close to eight months ago. Decided to just go where I pleased... followed the Seine for a while, until I decided to wander around the south... found my way to the Bay of Biscay, beautiful, never saw the ocean until then," she chatters.

"Isn't that dangerous? You silly girl, travelin' alone!" Marg gasps.

Esmeralda smiles. "Oh, we gypsies are quite adept at taking care of ourselves. Even us women," she says teasingly.

"But... you must've been lonely!"

"There's always people to meet on the road... I mean, look at us. I was simply traveling back to Paris, and now I'm talking with you two," Esmeralda replies.

There had been so many friends. More than she ever thought possible. Esmeralda knew she was naturally an effusive person, able to talk with anyone. But... she had never expected people, strangers, to be so kind.

It had been her nature to avoid others, to defend herself at the beginning of her journey. Soon, though, she had met a man, a wanderer on the road, who had given her his supper in exchange for simply talking. Then she had met a barmaid, a lovely woman from Brittany, who had chatted with her for hours at a time, about her son. She had met an aimless bookworm from a provincial town, a shepherd who loved to play the lute, a former hairdresser of the king's, and countless others.

Some were... negative. But more often than not... they were trusting of her.

She smiles warmly at her memories. But Marg's voice cuts through her aimlessness.

"Well, if you were my daughter, I wouldn't let you go wanderin' about. I suppose... do you have parents?"

"No. I was raised by my brother," she says. Instantly, she feels a surge of wistfulness. "It's been so long since I've seen him... I missed him," she admits.

"Course you did! But why did he ever let you out of his sight in the first place?" she chides, waggling her finger at her.

Esmeralda tries to brush off her piercing tone, her disapproving glare. But inwardly, memories, not necessarily pleasant ones, were rising to the surface.

_"__You can't just go! I can't allow it!"_ Clopin had said, shaking his fist.

_"__Clopin, you can't make me do anything,"_ she had shot back.

_"__Esmeralda, I'm the only family you have. That makes me in charge of you. And you're not going on some aimless wander about the French countryside! You know what's out there? Thieves. Murderers."_

_ "__There's plenty of those men here in Paris."_

Clopin had been livid. But, he knew his little sister all too well to think he could possible stop her from leaving. Esmeralda had left the next afternoon, with a worried Clopin following her as far as the city gates. They hadn't spoken a word to each other, Esmeralda still burning with absolute anger at him.

Regret fills her. She knew she had to leave. But now, she just wishes she hadn't been so angry with him in the end. Her stupid temper got the best of her.

"Well, it's getting late. I'm going to get some shuteye. We should be in Paris tomorrow morning, as long as this lug keeps on pulling along through the night," Marg says, leaning back.

She tosses her a hay filled sack. "Nighty night!" she croons, curling up in the wagon. Snores were soon heard, and Esmeralda saw Bruno struggle to contain his laughter.  
"Snores like a pig, she does," he says quietly, grinning. She gives him a small smile and nods.

"You can sleep too. And your goat's free to have some of the hay... even though I suspect he has already."

Esmeralda looks down to see Djali nibbling contentedly on straw. Biting back laughter, she pats him and murmurs, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Bruno said.

Marg's husband was much less talkative. Esmeralda listens to the creaking of the wagon, the soft sounds of the horses. Both lull her to a sleepy state.

Her eyes still warily flicker on both of them. They seem harmless enough, but you could never know with strangers. Esmeralda shifts and subtly grips her knife, hidden by her cloak. She slowly stares ahead, trying to keep awake.

Soon, however, the rhythmic creaks of the wagon rock her to a hazy, unfocused state. And before she can stop it, her eyelids drift closed, and she surrendered to exhaustion.

xxx

_He is above her, mouth twisted into an unforgiving sneer. Hands curled into wretched claws hook into her shift, twisting it tearing it. She can't move, can't even scream as he slips his claws up higher, higher..._

Esmeralda wakes with a jolt, chest heaving. Her heart-rate is so powerful, it feels as if her heart would beat its way out of her chest.

She shudders. _Just a nightmare... not real,_ she thought.

"Are you all right?"

The voice was distant. Her gaze snaps up, to see Marg staring at her, brow furrowed in concern.

Her immediate reaction is to lie. "I'm fine, just a nightmare," she says.

She doesn't feel fine. Especially since, as she now realized, they were at the gates of Paris, waiting in line for their turn. Paris. Her home. The place where she nearly died.

The nightmares were getting worse. The closer in proximity she is to the city, the more the nightmares frighten her. It was the same one, over and over again.

_Think of Clopin, Quasi, and Phoebus. Think of how happy they will be that you're home, _she thinks, forcing herself to close her eyes and take a deep breath.

She isn't calm, that would be too easy. She just feels a little more detached than anything else. As she opened her eyes again, she feels outside of her body, staring at herself in the wagon as they finally reach the guard.

She doesn't listen, entirely in her own world. That is, she doesn't listen, until the man says in a gruff voice, "Papers."

She instantly snaps back to herself. "What?" she says dumbly.

The man groans. "Papers. Give me your papers," he says exasperatedly.

Instantly she stiffens. "I've never had papers," she blurts out.

Marg and Bruno stare at her. Esmeralda clings to Djali, lips pursed. _Papers?_ "Last time I was here, I needed no papers to leave and enter the city," she explains, in her calmest, sweetest voice.

The man seems unaffected. "New policy from the minister. We check them now. And since you don't have them, we have no proof of your residence in Paris," he says, irritated.

Esmeralda feels her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. She is about to speak, when Marge beats her to the punch. "Can't she just come in with us?" she says fiercely.

"No ma'am."

"But, you didn't check our papers."

"You're not gypsies."

Esmeralda feels her temper flare up. "I've lived in Paris for most of my life! I have family behind those walls. I can take you to them-"

"Shut up, and get out of the cart!" the man orders.

Esmeralda grits her teeth, stifling a cry of frustration. She had thought Paris had put this garbage behind them. _Apparently not._

She debates whether she should stay in the cart. But, as her angry green gaze turns to the couple's, she knows that starting a new life in Paris did not mean hiding a gypsy fugitive in their cart.

"Fine." She snarls, rising from her place. "Esmeralda, no!" Marg says, grabbing her arm.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Now, may I please have my horse?" she says.

Skylla's reins were handed to her hands, and both Djali and Esmeralda look up at the couple. Forcing a grin, she waves a hand at them, all the while feeling her stomach twist in knots. "Thank you so much! I'll see you at the other side!" she says, trying not to feel apprehensive as the soldiers patrolling the gate surrounded her.

Marg opens her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a frantic glance from her husband. Shutting her mouth, Marg watches as the small gypsy girl disappears from view as their cart turns into Paris.

"Saints protect her," she mutters nervously.

Xxx

Esmeralda plasters a grin on her face and turns to the men now gathered around her. From previous experience, when dealing with soldiers, it was best to wear the most full lipped of smiles and walk the most full-hipped of walks.

"I'm quite sorry about not having papers. But I've been traveling for quite some time. I do have family in Paris. If you let me, I can tell you where they are," she says charmingly, hands on her hips.

While some of the men are assuaged by her warmth, the leader she first spoke to is less convinced. "Any gypsy caught without papers cannot enter the city. Since you aren't leaving, we have no choice but to take you custody."

Esmeralda's brows knit together, and her lips turn downward. "I was never given any papers! How can you possibly expect me to have something which wasn't in existence the last time I was in Paris?!" she says, fury rising quick.

The solider ignores her question, eyes wandering to her horse. "Pretty horse. Quite rare, for a gypsy to have one," he says pointedly.

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking. It was a gift from your Captain Phoebus," she says bitingly.

"Five guilders that it's stolen," grumbles one of the men behind her.

"I heard that, and how about you ask the Captain himself?"

"The Captain's not here to save you," one of them pipes up.

Esmeralda finds herself surrounded by six men, over-eager for action after months of mundane patrolling around a city that never seemed more boring.

Her green eyes dart from man to man, and she subtly reaches for her dagger.

"Gentlemen, I'd hate for my first day in Paris to be spent leading you all on a fruitless chase. Perhaps we should delay for another day?" she says in a sickeningly sweet voice.

The men around her step closer and closer, and energy spikes in her veins.

But before she can make her move... a man rides in, quite literally, on a white horse.

"What seems to be the problem here, lieutenant?" Phoebus says, quite literally breaking through the circle. Esmeralda feels her cheek muscles ache from the giant grin that now stretches on her face.

Suddenly, all the men stand straighter, and are filled with nervous energy. "Captain! What are you doing here?" the leader of their group asks.

"Oh, you know. Patrolling. Following orders. The usual," he says with wave of his gloved hand.

"We've caught a gypsy attempting to sneak into Paris without papers!" the man said, puffing his chest out and grabbing Esmeralda's arm.

With a single movement, she yanked the limb from his hand and proceeded to spin away from the company of men. "Not true. I wasn't sneaking anywhere. I was stopped when I was trying to enter, in a very not sneaky way, into the city," she says wryly.

Phoebus has to stifle his laughter with a cough.

"No need to stop this one. I know for a fact she'd want to get home."

"But she stole this horse!" the lieutenant says.

"Oh, Skylla? I gave that horse to her as a gift months ago. Glad to see she's in good condition," Phoebus comments. The company whisper, shooting suspicious glances between them. Esmeralda simply rolls her eyes.  
She can't help but shoot a smug smile as Phoebus motions for both her and her horse to come forward. Still holding Djali, she saunters away, blowing a mocking kiss to the men. "Goodbye lieutenant. I'm sure we'll meet again, when you accuse me of another crime I didn't do," she says tauntingly.

With that comment, she mounts onto her horse and follows Phoebus into the city.

Once past the walls, Phoebus quickly got off the horse and walked over to her, white teeth flashing in an enthusiastic grin. "Esmeralda... do you always have a habit of getting into trouble, or is it only when soldiers are around?" he comments.

Esmeralda rolls her eyes and gracefully slid off of Skylla. "Well, you seem to enjoy playing the knight in shining armor. I might just be doing it for your benefit," she says, punching him in the shoulder.

"Why is it you can't see me without hurting me?" he says, rubbing the shoulder.

"I didn't answer your question back then, don't think I'll do it now," she replies.

He shakes his head, still smiling. With about as much grace as a pup, he pulls her in for a hug. "How are you? I can't believe you're here! I was starting to think you had run off with some man in the country," he says.

"I'm fine. Happy to be home," she says warmly, patting his shoulder. She broke from him, her entire being feeling so light as happiness overwhelms her. Of course, this city had its unpleasant memories. But, there were too many people that she was so fond of to truly leave it.

"You're going to have to fill me in on all of your adventures. I'm sure there are many," he says.

"Eh, here and there, everywhere. Sometimes it was interesting, sometimes it was utterly boring," she says flippantly. Then, her tone is serious. "How's Clopin?"

"He's fine. Just fine."

If she were more focused, she would have sensed the change in his tone to something more foreboding. But instead, her eyes see the glint of his wedding ring. "And how's Fleur? Still as lovely as her namesake?" she says teasingly.

Phoebus suddenly grins. "She's great. And so's my daughter."

"Daughter?!" Esmeralda gasps, hand flying to her mouth.

"Yes," Phoebus says proudly, and at that moment, he looks every bit like a prideful father.

"Oh, I can tell already, she's going to have father wrapped around her little finger. What's the little princess's name?" Esmeralda says, suddenly so giddy with excitement.

"Aurore... means dawn..."

"I'm assuming Fleur picked it?" she says, nudging him.

"What?! Why does everyone say that!" Phoebus says, frustrated.

Esmeralda folds her arms, "Well. Did she?"

"Yes, but that's not the point! I could have thought of a pretty name too!"

"What were your options?"

Phoebus opens his mouth, only to realize he hadn't had any names picked out for a girl, but for a boy. Sheepishly, he clasps his hands behind his back, causing her to laugh loudly.

"Well, whatever her name is, I hope I get to meet her," Esmeralda says.

"Of course!" Phoebus replies.

For a moment, Esmeralda turns to the road ahead, suddenly lost in a swirl of sensation and familiar faces. There was the butcher that everyone avoided because of his rotting meat and surly attitude; there was the woman with the pushcart selling eggs; there was the tavern Clopin always went to have his fun, and the nearby baker who seemed to always take pity on gypsy children in the winter.

"It all looks the same," she comments, suddenly overwhelmed by a myriad of feeling.

Well, the same, save for the soldiers that now patrolled. Narrowing her eyes, she turns to Phoebus. "When did the guards become so active? Did something happen?"

Phoebus is suddenly quiet, and she saw guilt and apprehension seep into his frame. "Phoebus, what's wrong? What happened?" Esmeralda asks, anxiety twirling in her gut.

"Esmeralda... you're not going to like what I'm about to say," he says carefully, eyes following her every movement.

"What? What?! What the hell is going on?"

He's too afraid to say it all at once. "We have a new Minister. He's been cracking down on illegal activity. After you left, the city... it wasn't great."

"I remember, Phoebus... and although I hate you lot, we kind of needed extra soldiers," she says, instantly remembering the many times she had to run from cutthroats and men with very strong, wandering hands.

Phoebus winces and before he could speak, she says, "And even if the minister does have something against gypsies, that's nothing new. Nothing could be as bad as Frollo," Esmeralda says darkly, instantly glaring at a point far ahead of her.

"That's the problem. It's Frollo."

Her eyes widen minutely as her heart thuds furiously, an automatic response to what he's suggesting. But, she soon forces a smirk, and rolls her eyes. "Very funny, Phoebus," she says, inwardly cursing at how her voice still shook, still betrayed the fear she tries so desperately to bury.

But his face is still wan and pale. And she realizes that the next words he will say will destroy whatever hope for a new life she has left.

"He's been reinstated. The Crown needed a new minister, so they looked into their dungeons to find _him_," Phoebus says, spitting the last word in disgust.

Reality crashes down on Esmeralda as devastatingly as a falling stone. _No... no!_ her thoughts screamed in horror.

She backs away from him. "You're lying!" she snarls, fists clenching, muscles tight and ready for a battle.

Phoebus attempts to call her name, calm her. But she can't be calm; not when visions of smoke, fire and him spring before her eyes, blinding her vision. He stands in her personal hell, his smirk sadistic, as if it were only a matter of time before he caught and tortured her in his fiendish claws.

She doesn't know she's running until she almost crashes into one of the pushcarts. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?!" the woman shrieks.

But Esmeralda keeps running, bare feet slapping harshly against the cobblestone streets. Running from a monster that will never stop, from a beast that reappears over and over.

Her breaths gasps from her heaving, aching chest, and her legs burn from the exertion of running. But she runs faster fear running her blood cold, oh so cold.

She runs away, bile rising in her throat, hot needles of pain twisting in her abdomen...

She doesn't know she is on the bank of the Seine until she feels cold mud squish under her feet.

She finally stops, raggedly panting, stomach hurting from both running and thoughts of... that man.

She shakes uncontrollably, and her legs give out from under her, sending her down into the mud. Curling in on herself, she feels frustrated screams fight their way out of her throat, harshly crying out into the day. _It's not fair!_ She thinks bitterly, tears burning in her eyes.

She feels sick. And absolutely angry. Why is it that_ he _of all people is forgiven? Of all the prisoners who have been sent to rot in the Palace of Justice, he is the one that receives reprieve?

There had been so many gypsies sentenced for years because they simply stole to feed their families. And after one year, a monster, a killer, had been let loose and given honor.

It seems to be all one giant, cruel, cosmic joke. After all she went through... she's back at square one. Running from soldiers, running from his reaching, wandering hands

A choking sob claws its way from her hurting throat. "It's not fair," she cries hoarsely, the bitter taste of hatred lingering on her tongue.

_I've come from so far_... she thinks, heart constricting painfully in her chest. She had been running, trying to leave behind the past... only to come walking back into it just when she thought herself... not _fully_ healed, but certainly able to walk around Paris without the crippling fear of before.

Except... now, all she can think about is his face. How is she expected to move on when the very monster who haunts her nightmares rules the city?

She shudders, feeling ice cold, even as the sun blazes down on her with all its heat. Fear, anger, and desolation swirl within her, a lethal cocktail that threatens to strip away whatever hope she has left.

She hears someone behind her. Gasping, she springs to her feet, turning with her dagger brandished... to see blonde hair, brown eyes, instead of a harshly lined face and hooked nose.

"Oh," she says pathetically, awkwardly lowering her knife while her heart pounds furiously in her chest.

He has such a painfully uneasy look on his face, and she instantly feels guilty... _for what, being afraid? _She thinks pointedly.

"I... this little guy couldn't keep up with you," he says, redirecting her gaze downwards towards Djali who bleats in joy that his beloved friend is not lost.

Esmeralda feels a stab of guilt. "Oh! Right! Sorry Djali," she murmurs, bending down and picking up the goat. For a moment, she buries her face into his coarse fur, breathing in that musky, yet comforting, scent.

She tries to will herself to stop shaking, but cannot. Suddenly angry, she lashes at the one person there. "Why didn't you stop him?" she accuses. She still grips Djali tight, as if the small animal anchors her to this world, keeps her from sinking down and despairing in the mud.

Phoebus, after tying off Skylla and Achilles, faces her. He flinches in the face of her anger, and cannot help but be defensive. "It was the king's will. I didn't know it was going to happen until the papers had been signed!  
Anger burns within her like fire, scalding each nerve ending until she becomes too heated to even think anymore. "You're the fucking captain of the guard! If anyone can speak out, it's you! You know what he's done!" she snaps at him, voice ringing out across the river.

Phoebus's glance darts frantically across the river. "Keep your voice down!" he says warningly, attempting to near her.

But she reacts as if he is the very threat she fears, stumbling further back, dragging her skirts farther into the muck. Her muscles twitch and tremble, and in that moment, she feels like a cornered animal: agitated, threatened, and angry.

"How can I possible keep my voice down when you have allowed that monster to waltz in and take power?!" she yells, her voice howling and raging like the most deadly of storm winds.

"I had no choice!"

It was as if something broke apart with an audible _snap_ in her mind. Still shaking in both fury and fear, she sloshes towards him through the dark, grainy mud.

"Had no choice?! My brother, a gypsy, a man who's thought of as _subhuman_, chooses to openly mock Judge Frollo. He has so much more to fear than you do! But he chose to not give up! I would think the least you could do is make sure the people you serve are protected from the likes of him!" she cries out passionately. Phoebus steps back, genuine fear in his wide eyes. "Esmeralda..."

"No, dammit, I'm talking! You are telling me that there is absolutely no way that you, a military officer who everybody thinks is the city hero, can just... protest against him?!" she cries out bitterly.

"Esmeralda, if I spoke out against him... it's treason!"

"So?" she hisses.

Phoebus staggers back, absolutely floored by the coldness that seeps into her usually warm tone. And as she stares into his shocked eyes, she realizes the absolute stupidity, no, _cruelty _of her statement. In only a few moments, she can see his future had he refused an imperious monarch's wishes; a future that truly no longer had him living with his head atop his shoulders.

She gasps at her own blind fury. Immediately, apologies fall from the lips that once spewed such acid words. "I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean..." she says, clasping a hand to her mouth, as if to physically push the hateful words back down her throat, back to that dark, panicked place that frightens even her.

Phoebus's eyes still betray hurt, but he nods. Esmeralda believes that he lies when he says, "It's fine."

She turns away from him, still holding Djali tightly. The animal, vaguely aware of his mistress's turmoil, bleats mournfully as if to sympathize.

Subconsciously running her fingers through gnarled fur, she looks out at the Seine, too ashamed of her outburst to even meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help," Phoebus says lamely, and she can hear him shifting awkwardly in his stance on the riverbank.

"It's not your fault," she says lowly, sighing. Her eyes flicker to the other side of the bank, where three children, unaware of the grim-faced woman before them, splash and dunk each other into the cold spray. She watches, detached from their actions. She can't even smile. All she can think about is how the fire burnt, how his eyes burnt... their high pitched laughs and screams of delight take on something more macabre and frightening in her mind, as suddenly memories of gypsies, screaming in terror at the approaching fire and guard, spring before her.

_Heat... terrible heat... Flames licking at the bundles at her feet... choking smoke..._

"Esmeralda?"

It occurs to her that he's been calling her name repeatedly for the past few minutes. She feels as if she's swimming in murky waters, unable to surface.

Blinking, she turns back to him, breathing labored. "Earth to Esmeralda," he says with an awkward, halfhearted laugh.

Her brow furrows and she presses a hand to her temples, ears ringing. "Sorry," she murmurs, gut clenching in anxiety. What was happening to her? She can feel panic mounting in her chest, as solid and immovable as a lead weight.

She tries to shake off the alarming visions and distract her harrowed mind. "How long... has he been... back?" she says haltingly folding her arms tightly over her chest, as if the physical action will seal herself off from her surroundings.

"For a couple of months," Phoebus replies, still eyeing her carefully.

"Has he done anything exceedingly awful yet?" she says sardonically, slowly regaining her calm demeanor, and masking the previous vulnerability underneath the forced, wry demeanor. She knows it sounds false to her own ears, but she just hopes that Phoebus believes her.

She doesn't know if she is relieved or secretly disheartened when he does not seem affected by the false tone of voice and does not push the issue. "Not yet. He's been put on a short leash. There's a man named Nicolas Bonhomme, from the king. He seems like a decent man, and he's kind of Frollo's babysitter," Phoebus says, attempting to get her to smile at the quip.

Her lips quirk up minutely, but she can't laugh with him without it sounding absolutely forced. "Frollo's babysitter. _Poor man_. I would rather swallow a rat whole," she says, shuddering.

Still so serious, she turns her guarded gaze back to the children across the river. Concern is present in the smooth facets of her face, in her drawn together brows. "No matter how short the leash is, a mad dog always yanks itself out eventually," she says.

Phoebus stares at her tense posture, completely clueless on how to react in the face of her utter anxiety. "If he makes one slip up he goes back to prison," he volunteers sheepishly.

Esmeralda shoots a disbelieving glare, causing him to audibly gulp.

There were the words again-angry, bitter words fighting up her throat to gain entrance out of her mouth.

She had never been good at controlling her mouth. Nor her temper. So it's not really a surprise to her when she says:

"Unless the king just wants him to just get rid of the gypsies for good."

Phoebus gasps loudly, eyes glinting in alarm. "Esmeralda, you can't think like that!"

"Why shouldn't I? The moment they put Frollo back in as Minister, they proved they want us gone." She retorts fiercely.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have a suitable response for her. Sighing in frustration, she closes her eyes, trying to relieve herself of the heavy weight that settles down upon her, drags her down like shackles in the Palace of Justice itself.

"He doesn't know you're back."

Esmeralda frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Frollo. I told him you had left Paris months ago. That you were gone. He still doesn't know you're back. The soldiers at the walls never send full reports of what goes on," Phoebus says calmly.

Esmeralda turns to him. Without saying the words out loud, she knows what he means. She's invisible. A ghost. As long as she stays hidden... she's safe from him.

But what kind of life is that, to be a fugitive in your own home? She thinks. It feels so... cowardly. It doesn't sit well with her, especially since it is so evocative of the last time she had to be "invisible".

She combats the wave of memories by thinking of other things. Thinking of the present. After all the bad news he's said today, Phoebus has granted her a boon. "Thank you," she says, her green eyes glinting with understanding.

"Here..." Phoebus pulls out a scroll from a pocket of his belt, then a quill. Leaning onto a nearby tree, with Esmeralda's intent eyes watching his every brush stroke, he begins to draw on a map of the city.

"Frollo's pretty routine, so his routes don't usually change. If you want to avoid him, stay off of these paths from about noon to four. He goes to Notre Dame on Sundays, morning and evening mass. Just lay low, and he won't find you," he promises.

While the tendrils of fear still clutch her heart tight, she still is overwhelmed with tenderness by his actions. "Thank you," she repeats softly, hands reaching for the map.

He nods, eyes still concerned. Esmeralda folds the map and places t in her bag. For a moment she kicks at the muddy water, unaware of what to say. She had so many questions, and yet she was afraid to know the answers.

"I should go to Clopin," she breathes out in a rushed exhale. Phoebus nods. "I'll walk you there," he volunteers.

xxx

Thanks for reading and the reviews! -Cgal


	5. Chapter 4

As Esmeralda climbs up the riverbank onto the road, she tries to relax her horribly tense demeanor.

"You sure your lady-wife won't mind you acting so... _familiar_ towards me?" she teases lightly, attempting to fall back into that earlier, happy mood that had been so quickly taken from her.

Phoebus rolls his eyes. "I see no offense in helping a poor lady return home, especially at this hour."

"It's noon."

"Ah, noon, midnight, what's the difference?" he says with a wave of his hand.

Esmeralda's lips curve upward in a smile that although doesn't quite reach her eyes, still makes her feel a little lighter. "Do I need to give a list?"

Settling into an oddly familiar rhythm, she walks the path towards the graveyard. She playfully pats Skylla, finding contentment in the mare's tender whinnies and snorts. It was odd, that now her heart leapt in joy, not fear, in anticipation of going to such a grim place. Her joy to outsiders seems entirely unreasonable, as she passes by hundreds of tombs proclaiming the morbid certainty of death.

_It's_ _Grim to others, but not to me, _she thinks, flashes of brief, happy memories flickering through her mind. Her smile grows wider, and she decides that if she is coming home, she needs to fully come home. Not be tentative, even as Frollo rules the city she loves.

So she turns to him and throws herself into conversation. "How is Quasi?" she says.

"He's fine..."

"Please tell me he's getting out of that bell-tower. He said he would before I left," she says wryly, hands on her hips.

Another, less happy memory surges through her mind. _"You're leaving?"_ Quasi had said, his voice quiet.

Esmeralda had announced her departure during one of her last visits to him. He was the second person to know, besides Phoebus. _"Yes. I'm only young once! There's so many places I have yet to see,"_ she had said warmly, hiding the guilt she felt at seeing the crestfallen expression slip onto his face.

He had fiddled with his tunic, shifting awkwardly in his seat to avoid her gaze.

_"__You could come with me!"_ she had said, gripping at his broad palm. It had all seemed so possible then. She had been so taken by the idea, on traveling with the gentle man who desperately needed to see the world.

But Quasi had shaken his head.

_"__I'm not ready for that, Es,"_ he had said shyly.

For the life of her, she didn't remember now what she had said to him after that. It was so long ago...it was odd. Some parts of her memory were so vivid, she could remember the exact way Quasi had fiddled with his tunic... while other memories seemed so much more detached, clouded under the fickle haze of memory.

He had been so pensive and quiet the last day when she had said goodbye, and although many had chalked it up to his general demeanor, she knew he had been sad.

_"__Get out of the tower once in a while when I'm gone, okay Quasi?"_ she had said when she hugged his large frame, hands clasping each other behind him.

"He likes to keep to himself... but he's been out. Don't worry, I've been making sure to walk with him... People are getting used to him. Doesn't hurt that he was the town hero," Phoebus says, grinning.

Relief floods her system, and she nods. "Good... I'll see him tomorrow," she says.

As they walk along, she turns to Skylla, heart dropping in her chest. "I don't really know what I'm going to do with her in the Court... truth be told, there's no space for gypsies down there, let alone a horse," she frowned, hands still brushing over Skylla's mane and flanks. Truth be told, a surge of anxiety pulses through at the thought of abandoning her friend. It seems ridiculous, but in the past few months...Djali and Skylla were the only constant companions. They never asked prying questions, never gave her hostile glares that villagers sometimes would. They simply were there.

"I can take her to the stables. I can say I bought her myself, as a breeding mate for Achilles. She'll be taken care of," Phoebus offers.

Yet again, Esmeralda turns to him, a disbelieving smile on her face. How can he be so kind to her, when all she has done is accuse him? "Thank you," she repeats huskily.

Finally, they reach the tomb. "Allow me," he says, sliding the large stone tablet away. "Why thank you, kind sir," she says teasingly, lifting her stained skirts and leaping into the tomb. "I think I can take it from here!" Esmeralda says wryly.

Phoebus nods. "All right. But listen... if you ever need any help... meet me at Notre Dame at sundown. Or find me at my home," he adds.

"Hmmm... I think I can find you myself. I know my way around," she says, shooting him a wink.  
She sees concern in his face, and he doesn't give her his trademark grin. "Just... be careful, all right?" he says warningly.

Esmeralda's eyes are unreadable as she hides her worry behind a vacant stare. "I will," she says, but for some reason, the words feel false in her mouth.

Phoebus seems convinced, but nods. He carefully raises the stone slab, waiting until she moves farther down the stairs to seal off the entrance.

Esmeralda quickly descends down the familiar path, heart leaping in her chest. While the path ahead is completely pitch dark, her body moves naturally towards the entrance to the Court, if an invisible rope pulls her in. She barely flinches when ice-cold water rises around her legs. The stench, of sewage and bodies, barely fazes her. Home was home, no matter the smell.

Djali splashes in the water, bleats echoing off the high vaulted ceilings of the tunnel.

She hears someone move behind her. And although she knows what's to come, she still flinches as strong hands grip her from behind. "Hello Brutus," she says warmly.

A gasp is heard behind her and she hears him splash water and fumble. Light explodes in the dark chamber, and Esmeralda shields her eyes as Brutus lifts a lantern high above her.

The habitual guard of the Court lifts his lantern to her face, and she laughs. "Keep that light down! Do you want to blind me?" she says good-naturedly.

Brutus scrutinizes her face for a moment, only to grin widely. "Esmeralda!" he says, pulling her in a bear hug and laughing. Lifted high off the ground, Esmeralda squeezes him back. "Brutus. Haven't changed a bit I see?" she says.

He finally lowers her back into the water. Adjusting his eye-patch, he then grabs her hand clumsily, pulling her deeper to the Court of Miracles. "Come! I'm sure Clopin wants to see you!" he booms, loud, raucous voice ricocheting off the high walls. She lets herself be dragged, all the while a strange unease building in her stomach. _Please forgive me, _she begs, shame flushing her cheeks red.

But there's no time to reflect on the past when the present is bustling around her. Brutus, a man known throughout the Court for his warmth, attracts the people of the Court easily. And once they see just who he drags through the tent populated city, they chatter and shout excitedly. "Esmeralda!"

She hears a familiar voice. "Rosa!" she grins, watching as a heavily pregnant woman comes ambling along, features split by a huge grin. Esmeralda is stunned at the huge swell of her stomach. "Pregnant?" she squeaks, unable to articulate any other words.

The rosy-cheeked woman rolls her eyes. "I certainly hope so, else this means all the weight goes straight to my belly," she says humorously.

Esmeralda opens her mouth to chortle with her, tease her about the father, but she's swept by Brutus's outstretched arm and ushered towards Clopin's tent.

"Clopin!" he shouts, giant fist banging on the wooden tent pole. A cry of aggravation is heard in the tent, in a voice that makes Esmeralda's heart stop. "What is it now?" Clopin groans, gloved hands opening the tent curtains with a flourish.

His aggravated expression melts to one of shock when his eyes meet with his little sister's, and Esmeralda feels her stomach flip flop. _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for being so stupid, I'm sorry for being mad at you, _she inwardly babbles, her thoughts racing as his wild-eyes glance her over.

"Clopin-" she starts, voice already hoarse from tension.

But she's swept into a tight, vise-like embrace. "Welcome home," he murmurs softly in her ear, and the unease that clenches in her belly slowly unfurls, as she realizes that any forgiveness she was sure she had to beg for is now given in the form of this hug. She wraps her inert arms around him, and lets him lift her off of her toes, pretending to be the young toddler he had once tossed so easily into the air. She smiles so wide her cheeks strain. "Hello," she says, too overwhelmed by the nostalgic sweetness his skinny arms and smoky scent evoke. She tries to pull back, only for him to clench her tight.

"Oh no, little miss, you are not running off so easily to go chatter along with your gals," Clopin says mockingly, but with a deep, sentimental emotion that so infrequently enters his voice.

Esmeralda chooses to smack him lightly on the shoulder blade. "Well, seeing as I came to your tent first, I think I deserve some credit for not going to gossip. I mean, look at Rosa! She's pregnant!"

"Oh, and you think I don't have news that will rival that? Just because I am a man and I can't grow a babe in my stomach?" he says, at last breaking the hug to look at her. His eyes are suspiciously glassy, but knowing how Clopin is about such things, she doesn't mention it.

Clopin quickly ushers her into the familiar tent, sitting her down on one of the many cusions layering the floor. "Now, ma petite souer, how about you tell me how your journey was?" he says, immediately grabbing food. As his dark, calloused hands pluck out a white fluffy roll, Esmeralda's eyes nearly bug out of her head.

"Is that... Clopin, that bread! It looks-"

"Delightful, amazing, miraculous? Much like me?" he says, puckering his lips smugly.

He has to duck when Esmeralda hurls one of the threadbare pillows with as much force as she can muster.

"Oh, you think you're so impressive! But really... Clopin, where did you get that?!" Esmeralda asks as a white, fluffy roll lands on her hands. It's still warm, and smells fresh. Usually, they get the stale ones, the coarse, grainy leftovers from the market. "Did you steal this?" she automatically says, shooting him a sharp look.

"Only here two minutes, and already lecturing me? Sister dear, I'm shocked!" Clopin says, splaying his hands across his chest in mock-insult. Esmeralda rolls her eyes, still scrutinizing him as he plops down beside her. "All right, brother dear. Where did you get it then?" she asks, already tearing it apart.

"Well, you know Romana, the baker's wife? She was quite lonely after her husband's been going off with some of the street whores. So..." he trails of smirking.

Interested, Esmeralda leans forward, green eyes glinting with mischief. "So...?"

With a long draught of his wineskin, Clopin slyly says, "She's not lonely anymore."

Esmeralda bites back her laughter, choosing to instead shake her head. "You know what happens if the baker actually catches you, right?" she says wryly.

"Oh, but that, won't happen. I'm quite careful and ah, _discreet_ when I need to be. But you're not discreet at all! I see right through that interest. You're stalling! Tell me about your forays into the motherland, oh wandering one," Clopin says, tossing her the wineskin.

Taking a long drink, she smiles slowly. "First was following the Seine for a while, wandering the countryside. It's absolutely beautiful out there. Woods and plains, far as the eye can see. On sunny days, you just get lost in the blue sky..."

Clopin listens, nodding each time, taking in each of his little sister's expressions. Esmeralda talks for so long, describing the people she met, the countryside, the ocean, everything.

Clopin is the perfect performer. So he knows what a perfect audience member acts like, and laughs in the right parts, needles her for more when she wants it, and doesn't prod when it seems like she's finished with a story.

"...You know... I went into Reims," she starts, and Clopin's interest instantly peaks.

Lurching forward he grabs her hands. "Reims? You mean... where mother..."

"Yes... asked around if anyone knew her before she joined the troupe...actually, a nice girl took me to her house. Well, her old house. There was another family. But... it was so quaint. So peaceful. It makes me wonder why she ever decided to go off with the troupe." She says, laughing.

"Probably because that cottage was fucking boring," Clopin says lazily.

Esmeralda pinches his arm. In response, he shoves her.

They smile at each other. But Esmeralda sees the joyous glint suddenly disappear. "Esmeralda, there's something you should know..." he starts, but she places a halting hand on his shoulder.

"No need. Phoebus actually gave me... _that _bit of the news when I came in. Frollo's back," she says, the very words like acid.

Clopin's shoulders relax, and he looks relieved he's not the one to ruin Esmeralda's homecoming. "It's good Doofus did it. I had no idea how to start, and if you did get mad, at least he's covered in armor."

Esmeralda rolls her eyes, a stab of guilt still panging in her chest as she remembered her earlier hostility towards him. "I still have no idea how you chose that nickname. But be nice! He was very helpful..."

"Then why didya kick him to the curb?" he says subtly, and she yet again smacks him. "Ouch! Christ, If I'd known you were going to hit me, I'd have worn a thicker shirt," he says, rubbing his shoulder.

"So, how is everyone? Especially with Frollo... around?" Esmeralda says, eyes meeting his.

Clopin instantly stiffens, his expression resembling that of a growling dog. "Pah! That man! He rides through the city, all high and mighty, as if he weren't gone at all! If he weren't surrounded by his damn guard, I would put an arrow through his eye."

"You couldn't shoot that well even if you tried," she mutters into her wine.

He glares at her. Esmeralda simply shrugs, mouth screwing to the side.

Clopin folds his arms and sprawls against the cushions, still shooting daggers. "It's been relatively quiet. For Frollo at least. More guards, more meddling... no outright killing sprees yet," Clopin says sardonically.

"Hmmph," Esmeralda breathes out, brow furrowing. Taking another long sip, she quietly remarks, "He doesn't know I'm in the city."

"Good. Because every time you run into each other, things start catching on fire," he says pointedly. But any humor dissipated as he leaned forward, concern in his brown eyes. "But he'll only leave you alone if you don't cross him. And I know you mademoiselle. You meddle and get into trouble more often than not," he comments.

"You're one to talk!" she scoffs.

"Esmeralda, I don't have a geriatric bastard who once tried to fuck me or kill me," he says coarsely. "That you know of," she murmurs dryly.

"Esmeralda," he says warningly.

She groans. "Yes, I'll lay low!"

Clopin purses his lips, the worries glinting in his eyes. Esmeralda instantly feels defensive, meeting his eyes with a glare.

"Why so doubtful? Do you really think I would be so stupid as to goad him on? Put all of Paris in jeopardy? I haven't forgotten the first time I crossed him," she spits out.

Clopin raises his hands in defense. "I said nothing about you being stupid."

Esmeralda folded her arms over her chest, still shooting daggers at him. Already, she was absolutely prickling from the thought of hiding, sneaking around her own city. But she soon sighs, releasing the bunched up tension in her shoulders.

Clopin was unusually quiet, eyes fixated on the tired expression that was etched on her face. Seeing his expression, Esmeralda forces a grin.

"But no more doom and gloom. I do want to hear about Rosa. And Brutus. And how's Augusta?" Esmeralda says, winking.

Clopin grins devilishly. "I don't kiss and tell. So only know that Augusta... is well."

Xxx

After hours of exchanging stories of the past, Clopin finally grunts and hauls himself to bed, muttering incoherently about "wine and women and sleep".

Esmeralda smiles at him, then crosses to the other room, sectioned off by hanging sheets. Suddenly exhausted, she slowly eases herself down onto the familiar oddly assorted pillows. Djali sinks down beside her, curled in contentment. "Good night," she murmurs, still disconcerted by the familiarity, yet feeling detached from her surroundings.

She was home; really home. It feels odd. She should feel the elation she had felt before when surrounded by the crowd, when Clopin was embracing her and regaling her with stories of his exploits.

But, alone, staring at the threadbare fabric of their tent, Esmeralda felt... nothing.

She felt so empty. Perhaps it was just being tired. But she couldn't shake off a hollowness within her.

Shaking her head, Esmeralda pulls up the covers and rolls to her side. She shuts her eyes, and surrenders herself to the darkness behind her eyelids.

xxx

It was odd just how easy it was to settle back into old routines, with some minor readjustments.

After a night (mostly) free of nightmares, Esmeralda woke to find Clopin urging her to get up and make breakfast with Rosa. Esmeralda, eager to fit back in, threw herself into the mundane chore.

But after a long morning of ordinary chores restricted to the Court, she realizes Clopin had other motives to keeping her working _inside_ their haven, not out of it.

As dusk creeps over Paris, Esmeralda decidedly enters the tent, wiping her hands of grime and food remnants. "I'm going out to see Quasi. I'll be back," she says, throwing on her cloak. She feels him instantly drop what he's doing. "Oh no you don't! You still have laundry-"

"Finished it."

"Dinner?"

"Marissa insists on making it tonight."

"Dishes?"

"You need to have people eat dinner first before having dishes to clean."

Clopin folds his arms, a sheepish look on his face. At least he bothered to look a little guilty.

"Clopin, it's after four. Frollo's already skulked back to his lair, and won't be looking for me. I've traveled through the city without drawing attention before," she states, grabbing her gnarled wooden cane to use for her old woman's disguise.

He still looks concerned. But before he can say anything else, she says, "I promised myself I would see him today. Oh, and you are not keeping me in the Court forever. I'm dancing tomorrow. Perhaps a little more... _subtly_ during the day, but I'm dancing. I pull my own weight. Even if I am the king's little sister." She bends down and quickly kisses him on the cheek, turning to leave.

"Be careful! Do nothing rash!" he calls out after her, his movements frantic.

She turns back to him, and smiles. "Oh, you mean do nothing you would do? Got it!" she says teasingly. With those words, she pulls on her cloak, and makes her way to the entrance of the catacombs, Djali in tow.

"Good evening, Brutus." She comments to the big man who hides in the shadows.

"Evenin' Esmeralda!" he pipes up cheerfully.

She smiles in his general direction. Djali bleats his own greeting, then splashes around in the murky water.

Esmeralda makes her way to the stairs... and her smile fades. Trying to ignore the way her heart hastens its beat, she pulls on her hood, then pushes on the stone slab above her until it falls with a muffled thud to the side.

Taking a deep breath, Esmeralda steps out of the grave, making sure Djali follows before she replaces the stone slab. She slowly walks towards the exit of the graveyard

As she passes tombstones and dreary looking mausoleums, Esmeralda feels a prickling, unpleasant sensation creeping up her spine, setting her entire being on edge. It's a paranoid, debilitating feeling. The feeling that she's being watched.

Her gaze shifts all around... only to see no one. No one but the dead.

Biting her lip, she scoops Djali up, tucking him into the folds of her cloak. "Stay quiet. You know the drill," she murmurs quietly. As if to reassure her, Djali nuzzles closer.

Giving the goat a small smile, she pulls the cloak on tighter, and bends over. Her skin still prickles, as if her mind tries to convince her that staying home is indeed a good idea.

_No one's looking for me_, she reminds herself, and she forces herself to hobble, assuming the character of the old woman- no men want to grab her. No one wants to notice her. And soldiers just point and laugh.

As she makes her way though the city, her green eyes dart to the men lining the streets at every other corner. Their visors make them anonymous, and it's almost eerie how _still_ they are. _They're just soldiers, _she repeats over and over.

She's never been scared of them before. She wasn't a fool; she knew she had to avoid them. But she had never felt the gnawing fear that now settled in her abdomen, forcing her to hobble faster.

If they saw her... if they figured out who she was... what was stopping them from telling Frollo?

She makes her way, glancing up every so often to check if she's being followed.

When she finally makes her way to Notre Dame, she has to force herself not to tremble in the shadow of the great stone edifice. _Don't think about it,_ she chants.

_Heat... blazing, terrible heat, licking at her feet, creeping up her legs, choking smoke..._

_STOP IT!_ She inwardly screams.

Her hands shake as she pushes the heavy wooden doors.

Esmeralda quickly shuts it behind her, sealing herself in. As she stops to calm her nerves... she realizes just how quiet Notre Dame is.

She had forgotten... how isolated this place felt. The bustling sounds of the marketplace outside does not register. The shrill sounds of fishwives haggling over prices; children shrieking and jeering at each other.

All the sound, the noise, the chaos... it disappears. Leaving an emptiness... a peace that does in fact seem... heavenly.

Esmeralda slowly straightens up, letting Djali out of her cloak. The goat sticks by his companion's side as she carefully treads into Notre Dame, her feet padding silently over the black and white tiles that are so cool against her heels. In fact, everything about the cathedral is cool; from the air so much chillier than the hot steamy air outside, to the icy glares of the statues above her, eyeing her every step.

Monks in brown hoods patrol the aisles, gliding through the pews like ghosts. She slowly backs away from them, looking for the twisted staircase leading to Quasimodo's tower.

As she slips into the stairwell, memories flood through her head. It seems no matter where she goes, the very ground she steps on is dripping with memory, with wistful remembrance.

She remembers dashing up these stairs, meeting Quasimodo for the first time. She remembers being ushered down the same staircase by Phoebus and Quasi, shaking, pretending to feel triumphant as the people screamed for joy as the minister was hauled off in manacles.

Now... there was no pretending. There was no victory now. That was quite clear to her.

Shutting her eyes, Esmeralda forces the dark thoughts to the back of her mind. No. When she sees her forever optimistic friend, she has to not look like she's about to attend a funeral.

Opening her eyes, she turns the corner... to enter the entrance of Quasimodo's loft.

It's quiet, save for whispers of the wind that blow through into the bell-tower. "Quasi?" she calls out.

She hears loud creaks in the floorboards. And Quasimodo peeks his head over the ladder.

As his deformed face splits into a huge grin, she feels some of the dismal clouds begin to lift. "Esmeralda!" he cries out ecstatically, sliding down the ladder rails and launching himself at her in a huge, clumsy hug.

Esmeralda feels her lips turn up in a smile. "Good to see you too, Quasi!" she laughs, pressing her head at his shoulder.

Quasimodo pulls away from their shared embrace, but still holds her hands tightly within his broad palms. His smile stretches wide across his face, as his mismatched eyes meet her own gaze. "When did you get back?" he asks.

"Only yesterday," Esmeralda replies. He reminds her then of a newborn pup, hardly sitting still and absolutely happy.

"Come on up!" he says, grabbing her arm and pulling her up the stairs to his loft. Before she cans ay anything, he's already grabbed a stool, wine, and goblet for her.

After the whirlwind couple of days, his kindness touches her. She realizes just how much she missed him. Blinking back tears, she smiles and sits, knowing if she protests he'll just insist more and more.

"Oh! I see you've added some more," she blurts out, her eyes glinting in delight at the new wooden figurines present in town. As is his bashful nature, Quasi's eyes turn downward and his pale skin flushes red. "Just some people here and there..." he says, wringing his hands.

"Well, they're beautiful. I feel like I know them already," Esmeralda says gently.

Quasimodo's smile is small, but nonetheless she can feel its warmth. "Thank you." His gaze slides up to hers, and he instantly perks up. "So. How was your trip? Meet any new friends?"

Esmeralda smiles. "A few here and there. A few were... well, scoundrels, and not the good kind. But people were friendly! I wish you had met some of them..."

"Ah, maybe its better I didn't. Better they meet you," Quasi says quietly, suddenly interested in a point on the floor.

Esmeralda nearly winces at the comment. She still forgets how... affected her friend is by Frollo.

He's gotten better of course. When she had left last, he had been slowly befriending the village children, going out more and more.

"Come on! I know they would have loved you... when I talked about you they all seemed really curious about you," she says.

"Really? What were you saying?" he says suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing but the truth," she says, winking.

He blushes again, ducking his head. Esmeralda leans on her fist. "Anything new happen?" Esmeralda comments.

"New? I... well... there's a new baker in town. Le Roux is closed because of all the mud... and..." he stops abruptly, and his face is pale. She knows what he's about to say, and beats him to the punch. "Frollo's back. I know, Phoebus told me." She says quickly.

Quasimodo audibly gulps, and she suddenly realizes she's not the only one who has good reason to be worried about Frollo's return. She inwardly curses at herself for being so self-centered. "Has... has he come to find you?" Esmeralda asks quietly.

"No. He comes for mass... then leaves," Quasimodo comments, folding his arms.

Esmeralda bites her lip, trying to find the words to comfort him even as she feels its pointless. "Good. He better stay away... after what he's done," she says darkly, and Quasimodo shifts uneasily in his seat.

"Right," Quasi mutters. But he looks up to her, and his eyes are wide as he says, "But what about you?"

"He doesn't even know I'm in Paris. He won't come after me," she says, although the promise feels hollow after her own paranoia as she had walked through the city.

"And besides. I wasn't asking about Paris. I was asking about you," she says, forcing a grin.

"Me?" he says, frowning.

"Come on, its been months since I've seen you last. Surely something's must have happened?" Esmeralda says, smirking.

Quasi shrugs, but she sees a little grin slip on his face. "Ah, ah, ah, I see that grin, mister. Who is it?" Esmeralda says, excitement building.

His face flushes red once more. "Come on! Who is she? I'm assuming it's a girl, seeing as you can't stop blushing," Esmeralda says teasingly.

"I-I-I..." he stammers.

Esmeralda waits patiently for him. Finally, with a huge gulp of air, he finally spits it out. "Her name's Madeleine," Quasi says, a sweet, small smile on his face.

"Madeleine. Haven't heard that name before. Who is she?" Esmeralda asks.

"She was a circus performer... her troupe was traveling through, but she stayed in Paris... she now sells flowers with Marion."

"Have you talked to her?" Esmeralda asks, propping her chin on her palm and studying him eagerly.

"Sure... I... I go to her pushcart. I pass it when I go deliver figurines to the children." He says softly.

"That's so... fantastic Quasi!" Esmeralda replies enthusiastically.

xxx

For the rest of the evening, Esmeralda and Quasimodo spoke about anything and everything. He only interrupts their dialogue to ring the bells, giving her cotton to stuff in her ears. As the booming cacophony of sound vibrates the air around her, Esmeralda feels the incredible familiarity and comfort of the moment. She remembers sitting here, watching him leap from bell to bell, calling their names as he heaves and pulls at ropes. The memories are happy, untarnished by even the darkest times.

As they speak... the only sadness she feels is the regret of missing so much. When he speaks of the mystery blonde at the pushcarts, of the children who now flood his annex at every interval, she feels guilty that she had never been there to witness the change. She feels guilty that she hadn't been there for the kindest and most selfless of her friends.

Night falls quick, and she remembers Clopin, waiting at home, probably pacing wildly in their tent. "I should probably go. But I'll see you tomorrow! Promise," she swears, wrapping her arms around him once again.

"Be careful! There's always a ton of guards at Rue de Elysier," Quasi warns. She reaches over and squeezes his hand, silently promising to avoid the street.

Esmeralda throws on her hood. "Make sure you keep seeing that girl, Quasi. You never know just who people fall in love with," she says with a wink.

He blushes, but does not deny her statement in any way. And Esmeralda smiles softly to herself as she descends down the tower.

She assumes her disguise once more, Djali perched in her arm. The night is quiet, deathly still. As if in anticipation for the storm clouds that roll overhead.

A building catches her eye. The tall spires of the Palace of Justice cut across the dark sky, imposing, imperial among the much simpler houses. Clutching her cloak tight, she tries not to feel the chill that certainly isn't due to the hot summer air around her.

Willing her limbs to stop their involuntary trembling, Esmeralda hobbles down the road, wondering childishly if those spires had eyes affixed to their apexes-and whether or not they reported to the master within.

Xxx

_Scritch. Scratch. Scritch. Scratch._

Frollo tries to block out that sound. That horrendously mundane, ordinary sound that seems to growing more in infamy to his ears than any other. But perhaps, it's not the sound itself, but the meaning of it.

The sound of Nicholas Bonhomme's quill upon paper alerts Frollo of his meddling.

Six weeks. Six, long, weeks. Six weeks and he's done the work he would have usually done in half the time because of the man who occupies the table before his desk.

His words are monitored. Catalogued. Carefully copied down by the irritable attendant.

Frollo hates the absolute frustration of it all. Bonhomme is a nuisance, a hindrance to his affairs. Without him, his city would be free of the gypsies that threaten and torment the people with their base, heathen vulgarity.

His hands clench at his chair-arms, as he imagines simply ordering the man's head removed. The dark vision swirls before him, all too tempting as the man looks up, opens his mouth, and says in that practically whiny tone, "What is your intended proposal for Rue de Elysier? Can the men really be spared to consistently guard that area day and night?"

He grits his teeth, holding back the growl of fury that bubbles in his chest. "Rue de Elysier is a virtual cesspool of prostitution and illicit activities. Soldiers are required in order to dispel any further activity. When I feel it is purged, then they may leave," Frollo replies icily.

Bonhomme adjusts his spectacles with a noticeably shaky hand. At least the man bothered to look frightened of him. Frollo does not bother to disguise the smug smirk that twists his features, one that has Bonhomme shivering in fear.

"But... you have a battalion! Surely there's s-something else they can do..." Bonhomme stammers.

Frollo drums his fingers militantly on his desk, the sound as intimidating as the march of his men. His eyes still blaze ferociously beneath furrowed brows, something that Bonhomme thought would fade after his imprisonment had ended.

But the hunger in his eyes that glints coldly in the candlelight isn't for food as he had originally thought. It's for something much more terrifying. Damnation of souls, perhaps.

"Have you ever been to Rue de Elysier in its magnificent apex of filth?" Frollo comments, his fingers still drumming consistently upon dark wood.

Bonhomme quickly shakes his head.

"I thought not. It is indeed most vile. The women, if they can be called women, misuse and manipulate the disgusting corporeal weaknesses of mankind." As his mouth screws into a grimace of disgust, Bonhomme's gaze furrows with concern.

Anger sparks to life in his dark eyes as his words, sharp as knives, fling with frightening accuracy. "They have no redeemable quality whatsoever. So it is a certain necessity for them to be punished, whether through arrest, or through the removal of their key economic benefits."

As usual, the minister renders the man speechless. His mouth flaps open unbecomingly as his words fail him.

"Fine... but... this is... temporary," Bonhomme replies shakily.

As the two men eye each other suspiciously, Frollo hears the distant, rumbling tone of the bells chiming the hour. Midnight.

Bonhomme noticeably yawns, rubbing at his tired eyes.

Frollo sees an opportunity. "You look quite weary monsieur. Perhaps rest would be beneficial to you."

Bonhomme's eyes are bleary with sleep. Unfortunately, it seems that the judge has no desire for sleep himself. These past six weeks have been long indeed.

"I must be present... for all... motions," Bonhomme says, stifling another enormous jaw cracking yawn.

"I will present such motions to you in the morning. I still have much to do, and you are quite useless to me if you doze off," Frollo clips harshly, his gaze cold.

Bonhomme considers his options, all the while, the judge inwardly appeals to God that he will simply leave.

To Frollo's relief, he rises from his chair, taking his notes with him. "I shall see you early tomorrow, minister. Hopefully I'll be much more alert!" he pipes eagerly, only for his eyes to meet Frollo's withering glare.

Bonhomme's smile slips away, and he turns, exiting into the corridor.

Frollo cannot disguise the sigh of relief that exhales from his lungs. Alone at last.

His eyes glance down at the orderly text, and he bends down once more to scratch his quill.

Minutes tick by, and Frollo is made aware of just how quiet the Palace of Justice can be. After so much time spent with Bonhomme and his irritating comments, he had nearly forgotten the peace of solitude.

Unfortunately, he underestimates just how drowsy silence can make an individual. As he tries to forge on with his work, his eyelids feel heavy, the text blurring on its own accord. Scowling at his own sloth, he attempts to refocus.

But in the silence of his study, Frollo slowly succumbs to his own weariness... drifting into a hazy, untamed world of dreams.

_Rue de Elisier. _

_The familiar street twists before him, the stones dull in the ominous light. The air is heavy, so very heavy. Like smoke._

_He looks up to see a red, fiery sky, beautifully terrible. _

_ "__Minister..."_

_A husky voice beckons to him. His gaze shifts... and she is there, leaning suggestively against one of the walls before him. _

_Her cat-like green eyes consume him, bewitching his soul, snaring him in. And suddenly she is before him, black curls tossed wildly around her head, hips moving fluidly. "I have a price you know..." she whispers in his ear. _

_Her cunning hand squeezes his crotch, and her wet lips press to his neck and ears. _

_ "__Would you like that Claude? Would you like to buy your whore?" she hisses. _

_Her clothes are gone and she pounces above him, her white teeth flashing as a mocking, throaty laugh erupts uncouthly from her mouth. Her claws tear at his clothes, ripping and tearing as a hellish red sky burns behind her._

And he jolts awake with a groan.

He pants and shakes in his chair, his heart beating so violently it threatened to escape his ribcage. Sweat trickles down his brow, cold and shocking against his feverish skin.

Frollo presses taut fingers against his eyes, rubbing viciously against closed eyelids. _You fool, you weak old fool!_ He berates himself.

Her face, her lurid dance, her flashing teeth- they flicker on the inside of his closed lids, tormenting him, luring him. Her vulgarity startles him, and yet excites him just the same, as proven by the tightening sensation in his groin.

For six weeks, he has suppressed the memories of the past. Well, attempted to. But sleep has become a silent, subtle enemy, planting images and deeds within his mind. He sees the moment at the bell-tower over and over. He can feel her soft body under his own every night.

Good Lord, why is he not free? Why does she still appear before him?

The witch, the demon, the tormentor. And yet he wishes to thread his own fingers through that glorious hair, press his own lips to her own.

He struggles to stand, his whole body shivering from the cold sweat that drenches his robes. _Disgusting, absolutely disgusting!_ He thinks viciously, rubbing at his face, as if to wipe away her stain that corrupts him so. The sin that evidences himself by the hard swelling beneath his breeches. He clenches at the arms of his chair, willing himself to soften. He cannot sin, cannot blemish himself because of her vicious spell.

The clamor of his blood never ceases because of her, driving him mad in all idle moments.

To distract himself, Frollo moves to the windows and peeks behind the curtains to see a coldly lit, grey sky. It's morning. He's slept away his precious time.

His jaw clenches as his eyes survey his city. He tries to focus on the task at hand, drill through the routines he must perform today.

But her eyes still flash in his mind. And he can't help but feel that he is running. Fleeing from her specter that haunts his every step, like his own shadow.

He presses his forehead against the cold windowpanes, wishing that it would end. The paranoia, the dreams, the feeling of always being hunted.

He sees their prying eyes when he gives the soldiers orders. Their eyes that accuse him, that mistrust his actions at each turn. He feels the hostility of Parisians where there was once respect.

And then there is the realm of his own mind Frollo decides he is no coward. He refuses to be afraid of something as foolish as his own subconscious. But he still begs for the answer to the question-why _does_ he feel as if he's running from something? It's the most confusing, alarming emotion that has steadily increased over these past weeks. She's gone. Left. Never to return. And yet... The feeling of someone at his back, snapping at his heels still presses him. It drives him to work longer hours and stay awake for as long as necessary, if only to avoid the claustrophobic sensation of being trapped that falls upon him in his idle moments.

And yet, despite the work, despite his industrious and logical nature, he knows one fact with a frightening clarity that would terrify more sane men.

Something is coming for him.

xxx

Thanks for reading! Please review! -Cgal


	6. Chapter 5

For Esmeralda, time passes slowly, ambling about like an oxen with its cart.

As the days lazily blur into each other, Esmeralda can't help but become restless. Of course there are moments of excitement that punctuate her time: Rosa goes into labor shortly after her return, Clopin's antics never cease to amuse her, and Quasi's burgeoning romance with the mystery Madeleine slowly but surely progresses.

But as other people explode in a chaotic flurry of activity around her... she feels detached. As if she is separate from the events around her, as if her own lifeline is cut from the coiled knot of the Court's.

She hears the people's whispers. How she doesn't smile like she used to. How she hides in fear of the minister. Their looks of pity and sympathy are hard to take in excess. At first she only nods and smiles at their well-meaning, but tiring comments.

But as days turn to weeks, and their comments grow more and more melodramatic, Esmeralda begins to dislike the attention. She just wants to move on with it, be done with it all. It's bad enough Frollo's minister. But being treated like a forever-victim just feels degrading.

So she avoids them. She goes off on her own, reckless as it may be. She of course avoids the hours he's patrolling... but she goes out nonetheless. She even dances a bit, trying to earn her keep. Trying not to feel useless.

She tries to pretend to be the charming dancer of before. But ... it's hard, after she remembers it was her dance that caused a madman to be formed, and a city to be burned.

She shouldn't blame herself. It wasn't her damn fault, for Christ's sake.

But she still feels empty.

It sure doesn't help that the nightmares keep her up night after night.

After another sleepless night, Esmeralda figures it's time to visit an old friend again.

Xxx

"Esmeralda! How are you?"

Phoebus stands behind the open door, grinning widely at her. Esmeralda gives him a small half-smile from beneath her cloak. "I'm well. Except, I just realized-I never got to meet Aurore," she says.

"Well, come on in! I think Fleur can check with the wet nurse to see when she's up," Phoebus replies enthusiastically.

Esmeralda follows inside, conscious of just how big the place is. As she stares up at the heavy tapestries that line the world, she realizes how out of place she must appear to be.

Shaking off any nagging insecurities, she chooses to hasten her stride until she's side by side with him. "You know I didn't actually expect this place to not be guarded, seeing as how Fleur's mother is about things," Esmeralda comments, her green eyes wandering over the simple, yet tasteful artifacts that line the walls.

"Oh, guards would just be ridiculous. Besides, as Captain of the guard I think I provide some protection, don't ya think?" he says.

"Sure. You are _so_ intimidating," she deadpans sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"Hey! Watch it!" he says folding his arms and sniffing at the slight.

"Calm down, I was only joking!" she teases, shoving at his arm.

Phoebus shakes his head, but smiles all the same.

"How have you been? Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. You been busy?" he asks politely.

Esmeralda nearly snorts. "Well, busy with chores around the court. Which are the most boring kind. Clopin isn't so keen on me going out."

"Let me guess, you disobey him at every turn?"

"Of course!" she fires back, smirking.

"Hmmm," Phoebus hums back, sitting down on one of the many plush chairs that litter the sitting room.

Esmeralda still stands, too restless to sit. She instead chooses to peer at the small dolls that are posed on one of the tables.

"Besides, I've been good. No one but the Court, you, and Quasi know that I'm back. You haven't heard any reports of me causing chaos, have you?" she says pointedly, looking up at him with lively eyes.

"Nope. Which I found surprising... and relieving. It's a bit of a chore to chase after you, by the way. No picnic," he says humorously.

Esmeralda unlatches her cloak, shaking out her voluminous curls. "No, I've just been trying to see Quasi and dance as much as I can... oh! Did you hear about Quasimodo's new friend?" she says excitedly, sitting in the chair across from him.

"You mean the little blonde down at the pushcarts?" Phoebus says warmly.

Esmeralda smiles softly. "I'm just... happy that he's trying." Her gaze then darkens. "If she hurts him though..." Esmeralda clucks her tongue and shakes her head in derision.

"I'd hate for anyone to cross Quasimodo. Facing you would be terrifying," he says with a shudder. Esmeralda frowns at him.

"Am I really so intimidating? I thought I was most fun," she says teasingly.

"Well, yes, sure you are... it's just... well, Esmeralda, have you ever seen what happens when you get mad?" Phoebus says, laughing.

Esmeralda folds her arms, and despite herself, cracks a smile. "Well, not all fo us can be laid back all the time!" she exclaims, and he grins.

"Phoebus? Who's here?"

A blonde, waif-like woman glides into the room. Her eyes fall on Esmeralda, and widen. "Oh! Hello," she says softly, giving a polite, if restrained smile.

Esmeralda grins back and stands. "Good to see you Fleur! Congratulations on Aurore, when Phoebus mentioned her, I just couldn't wait to meet the little princess," Esmeralda says mirthfully, nodding her head at the young mother.

Fleur, as per usual, is quiet. Not at all rude, but quiet. "The nurse says she's up. I'll go fetch her," she murmurs softly.

Phoebus's face lights up. "Oh you're gonna love her! All smiles and rosy-cheeks, she's absolutely adorable like her mother," he says and Fleur blushes pink.

Esmeralda stifles another eye-roll at his almost sickeningly sweet tone, but grins anyway. Fleur slips from the room, walking to the other side of the house to fetch the child.

"Adorable like her mother?" she whispers teasingly.

"What?!" he exclaims.

"Nothing... it's just so... sweet," she murmurs, a mocking smile on her lips.

Fleur quickly comes back, holding a small bundle in her arms, wet-nurse trailing close behind her. Fleur rocks the babe back and forth so gently, as if Aurore were made of porcelain rather than flesh. "She slept for a long time Madame. I don't believe she's hungry," says the woman, a little older than Fleur herself.

"Thank you Marion. I'll call you should you be needed," Fleur replies.

The nurse curtsies, her brown eyes glancing momentarily at the dark-skinned woman, obviously Romani. She frowns, and Esmeralda only has to guess at the flurry of disapproval that must buzz in her head.

The nurse leaves and Phoebus immediately jostles over to Fleur's side, eyes peering eagerly at the small, wriggling bundle. A dopey grin stretches his cheeks, and Esmeralda must admit, it's absolutely precious to see the hulking captain wiggle his finger in the little one's face, cooing and nearly giggling.

Fleur's eyes flicker up to Esmeralda, warmth in her usually cool blue gaze. "Want to say hello, Aurore?" Fleur murmurs softly. The baby gurgles in response, and Esmeralda can't help but draw near the couple.

Esmeralda instinctively smiles as the little pink face comes into view. Aurore flails and screams in delight, giving a toothless smile. "For once Phoebus is right. She's adorable," she comments. Fleur nearly gasps at the comment, while Phoebus rolls his eyes.

Esmeralda knows how defensive mothers are of their babes. So she holds off on asking to hold Aurore, choosing instead to give her finger to the pink, squishy baby, and let Aurore grip it with a chubby hand. A chuckle rumbles in her chest and she looks up at Fleur. "How old is she?"

"About three months," Fleur replies, a soft little smile appearing on her pink lips. She slowly walks over to the divan and sinks into the cushions, eyes never leaving her child's face. Phoebus instantly sits with her, and Esmeralda has to admit that they make a pretty couple, cooing over their baby.

She smiles, in no way annoyed that they've seemed to forget she's there. Esmeralda sits on the chair across from them, leaning forward and placing her jaw on her palm.

The next hour passes in a blur as the baby gurgles and screeches happily, while Fleur engages in polite conversation with Esmeralda. It may be restrained, but Esmeralda doesn't mind. It's not as if Fleur is trying to be aloof, it's simply the situation.

Being the former beloved of her husband has to be a bit awkward, she thinks to herself. Well, a lot of emphasis had to be put on former, since it was her tht ended it.

The conversation turns to politics, and the recent succession of kings. Something about Louis or some other monarch. It's not that politics bores her; it's just that it really doesn't matter who's in power, they're sure to run things the same way anyway.

The baby eventually bursts into tears, and Fleur departs from the room to fetch Marion. Phoebus, still smiling, leans back against the couch. "She's a princess, isn't she?" he comments.

"I'm sure," Esmeralda replies, smiling at him.

She turns to the doorway where Fleur disappeared, and says brightly, "You two seem to getting along quite well."

Phoebus shrugs his shoulders and simply grunts in agreement.

"Come on, she's absolutely sweet. Don't give me that," she teases.

"Well, it was bit... awkward the first few months...Not that you would know, you didn't stick around after the wedding," he comments.

"I guess I just wanted to skip to your happy ending. All that pesky getting-to-know-your-own-wife-because-of-an-arranged-marriage gets a little old to the casual viewer," Esmeralda replies wryly.

Phoebus folds his arms. "I'm assuming that you wanted to talk about something other than my marriage Esmeralda..." he quickly deflects.

"I just wanted to see you. The Court's a bit claustrophobic," she comments vaguely.

Phoebus frowns and studies her. "Are you okay, Es? You seem... out of sorts," he comments reluctantly.

Esmeralda automatically stiffens, her shoulders tensing as the personal question is hurled towards her. "I'm fine... really I am! I just...like everyone else, Frollo being minister puts a damper on things," she says casually.

His eyes beneath furrowed brows glint in concern. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

She opens her mouth, but pitiful excuses come flying out. "No. Jesus Christ, why does everybody look at me and see a walking disaster? I'm fine! I faced down Frollo once, I could probably do it again," she says cockily.

"That type of talk gets you in trouble," Phoebus counters, folding his hands over his lap.

Esmeralda glares at him pointedly. "I am fine, Phoebus."

I just have nightmares every night and visions of that one night every time I set foot out of the Court.

She shakes off her thoughts.

"You can talk to me about it, Esmeralda... really, you can..."

"Goddammit what is with you people? I'm fine. I don't need any help. I'm not some poor unfortunate victim! In fact, for once I'd just like to stop talking about him. If I hear that bastard's name one more time, I will honestly begin to start throwing punches!" she growls, banging her fist against her knee.

Phoebus reels back, mouth hanging open dumbly at her outburst. "What d-do you want to talk about then?" he fumbled with his words, his tongue wielded as clumsily as a toddler's first steps.

"Anything!" she shouts, her voice sharp as an arrowhead.

Phoebus's mouth hangs open for so long, she swears bird could have laid eggs within it. Then, he blurts out dumbly, "The weather?"

Esmeralda's retorts die in her throat as she takes in his terrified, slack-jawed expression.

The tension is palpable in the air...

She realizes how ridiculous the whole exchange has been... and bursts into laughter bordering on hysterical. After nights of staying awake on her mat, after days of being pushed to a literal breaking point... she can't help but just laugh.

Phoebus still sits there openmouthed, even more painfully confused as her shoulders and chest convulse up and down as throaty, yet harsh laughter erupts from her mouth. "Ummmm..."

Esmeralda is doubled over in laughter, tears forming at the corners of her clenched eyelids.

"Oh my... I just... I'm just..." she gasps out, flopping against the back fo the couch. She has no idea why she laughs... but it feels a whole lot better than sobbing.

Phoebus is still baffled, and slowly tries to form a response to the convulsing woman on his couch.

He chooses the words. "You know what I said before about you being terrifying when you're angry?" he says hoarsely.

Esmeralda nearly hiccups, "Yes?"

"I take it back. This is fucking terrifying," he laughs shakily, and that simply sends her into another spasm of hysterical giggles.

"I would apologize... except th-this feels a lot better th-than snapping at you... s-so you better thank me a-actually," she exclaims brightly.

Phoebus is silent for a moment. But his face splits into a wide, sheepish grin and he laughs with her, both of them surrendering to a need to make things lighter, to ease the unbearable tension that clouded the air moments before.

Esmeralda loses herself to the humor of the moment, surrenders to the hysterical, sob-like guffaws that heave her chest, that make it painful to breathe. As Phoebus joins in with his rough chuckles, a small voice at the back of her head wonders if this is simply her defense against prying questions. If she's avoiding the issue, deflecting with her own nature of laughing the face of danger.

It's a brief musing that attempts to sober her up. But she's drunk on her own hysteria, and she wants to simply forget that when she goes home tonight, she'll have to act as a fugitive in the streets. She just wants to pretend she's normal, pretend that she's not driving herself insane with her own nightmares.

Fleur enters back into the room, and instantly looks baffled. Esmeralda suddenly snaps her lips over her teeth, waiting for some comment of propriety, on how rude her laughter is.

Instead, she says in a surprisingly dry tone, "I suppose you found something to amuse yourselves with?" and then a small smile, much less cool then her perfunctory grins, quirks up the corners of her lips.

Xxx

The light streaming in through the open windows slowly deepens in color, from bright yellow, to burnt orange, to a brilliant fuschia. The conversation, although now freely flowing despite her earlier hysteria, soon must end. Esmeralda knows this as the sun dips lower, disappearing behind one of the edifices adjacent.

As Phoebus and Fleur show her to the door, she tries to keep the grin in place on her face. She feels happier, yes. But in anticipation of hiding herself once again, that smile seems like a mask, one that hides, but is so fragile, on the point of cracking in two.

"Thank you so much for letting me see Aurore. I hope that a future visit would be welcome?" she asks.

Before Phoebus can answer, Fleur herself says, "I can see no reason why not." Taken aback by her sudden warmth, Esmeralda blinks, then shoots her a grin. "Perhaps I'll come when that lug is out patrolling. We can gossip about him until the cows come home," Esmeralda replies humorously, pulling on her hood and slowly picking up her cane from it's place leaning on the wall.

Fleur doesn't say anything, but hides her giggles behind a tiny white hand.

Phoebus's eyes slide over from his wife's to Esmeralda's. And she can see some foreboding in that gaze. He still isn't quite done being afraid for her.

"Esmeralda-" he begins but she soon cuts him off.

"I know it's Sunday, Phoebus. I can tell time," she replies.

Evening mass at Notre Dame. Not that she would ever go. "I'll stay away, promise," she replies.

Phoebus bobs his head once at her assurance, an action that feels forced to her. Of course he doesn't believe her.

But she doesn't bring up her nagging suspicion, and instead bids them goodbye.

As she hobbles down the familiar path towards home, she passes by the alleyway that leads directly to Our Lady herself.

For some reason, Esmeralda halts, her legs no longer moving mechanically beneath her torso. Notre Dame is so massive, she can just see the top of the building peeking over above the other rooftops.

The alleyway seems to beckon to her, a gaping entrance to a place she shouldn't go. Her fingers flex at her sides as a nervous energy bubbles beneath the surface, a morbid curiosity that sends her head reeling.

Evening mass will start soon. And he's sure to be on time.

She chews on her lower lip, inwardly debating with herself whether she should move forward. Why?! What good would it do? She inwardly screams, attempting to shake off the pervasive urge to see her monster face to face.

As she stares longer and longer, her legs begin to move, urged forward by the burning questions that blaze through her mind.

Esmeralda keeps hobbling, the fear of being caught surging through her veins.

She sits, crouched at the very entrance of the alleyway to the square, daring a small peek behind the wall.

Nobles of all shapes and sizes stream smoothly into the open doors of Notre Dame, careening past the pockmarked, the sick, the weak... those that sit far in back of the sanctuary.

He's nowhere to be found. She still has time to leave. To forget this dangerous urge to see her nightmare.

Time passes, and the square empties considerably, until she's left staring at bare, numerous steps, and a darkened space. Leave, urges her mind, but she stays put, unable to wrench her eyes from the square. She can't look away.

She heard the harsh clip clop of horse's hooves ring out, and stiffens.

His carriage comes into view, a small, severe looking box that looks as much like a prison as the Palace of Justice itself. Soldiers flank it on all sides, creating an orderly procession. Her knuckles turn white as she grips her hands at her sides, clenching as her heart pounds furiously in her chest. Despite her bravery, despite convincing herself she's safe hiding in the shadows... her heart leaps into her throat as one of the soldier's opens the door of the metal box.

She ducks her head, but shame forces her to raise her head once more. No. She cannot turn away because of her own fear. She hugs her knees to her chest, becoming as small as possible... while still staring at the dark figure that exits the carriage.

He wears the same clothes. Triangular chaperon. Dark, flowing robes of heavy velvet. Black boots that thud against the stone ground. She cannot see his face, only the back of his head.

His stride is slow, ominous. But there's a fluidity in his gait that resembles that a prowling jungle cat-smooth, quick to strike, dangerous. One that sets her teeth on edge and cling to the cobblestones with shaking hands.

But then he stops, halting just before the door. Esmeralda leans forward... only to see him slightly cock his head in her direction.

_He knows. He knows!_ She thinks, panicking. She can't move, can't run. Her limbs have become stone, useless.

_Fire. Heat. Unbearable heat. Flames inches from her feet, scorching her shift. Smoke clouding the air, choking her..._

_Quasimodo falling, slipping from her quivering hands, why oh why couldn't she save him?_

_Frollo on top of her, pressing into her insistently, cornering her into the stone floors. She was squirming, she was screaming, no one was coming, why could no one hear her? _

_His face... oh his face was terrible. His smile seemed feral, a wild beast cornering his prey. His barking laugh _

_She screamed as his hands reached for her clothes. Terrible hands, that bruise, that pinch, that rove uninhibited. He mashes his lips over her mouth, pressing, hurting, bruising her lips. _

The memories surge, one after the other, leaving her blind and deaf to anything else. "Please stop, please stop," she chokes out, chest heaving as she hyperventilates, somehow unable to breathe enough air into her starving lungs.

_STOP IT!_ She inwardly screams.

And then, it's gone.

Panting and rocking on her heels, she realizes that she's utterly alone. He hasn't found her. In fact... when she looks into the square... he's gone. Already entered the cathedral.

She raises a hand to her face to feel the wet tears that leave their stain on her cheeks. She feels as if she's just surfaced from ice cold water, disoriented, dizzy, and somehow still drowning.

Esmeralda claps her hands over her eyes, shuddering. No. It was getting worse. Far worse.

What was wrong with her?! She could barely leave the Court without crippling fear... and then, in the first sign of danger, she blacked out and was left a quivering, crying mess.

Why did it have to b her? Why couldn't he have chased after someone else, ruined someone else's life? It's a selfish thought, one that drips with an egotism that she really hates. But as she hugs her knees to her chest, stifling tears of hysteria from dripping down her face, she can't help but wonder why.

Esmeralda stays huddled against the wall... until she realizes that night has quickly fallen. Clopin will be waiting.

She roughly wipes at the tears on her face, ashamed at how weak she has become. Esmeralda slowly stands, wavering a little on her feet. She does not look back at Notre Dame, that imposing edifice, as she hobbles away, head down, tear streaks drying on her face.

Xxx

The week passes even slower, as Esmeralda chooses to stay in the Court. Even Clopin notices her changing mood, imploring her welfare at every interval.

Esmeralda knows she can't hide here forever, stay in the confines of her home. She's too restless despite the paranoia and dread that seem to haunt her footsteps. She never was one to stay still.

So she crushes down her fear into a small, unseen corner of her mind, and walks outside. Still disguises of course. But at least outside.

For a few moments she begins to feel normal. The sun is hanging high in the sky, the marketplaces are full of familiar faces that banter and shout at each other in a way that triggers better memories.

But as she turns down a less traveled street, she sees a commotion ahead.

A familiar voice echoes in her ears. "Let go of me!"

Esmeralda turns her glance to Rosa, gripping tightly to a sack. "You stole em!" Esmeralda hears one of the soldier's say, as well as other accusatory snatches that instantly have her up in arms.

She strides forward... only to remember. She's a ghost. She cannot intervene, else the soldiers report her to Frollo.

So she watches, stomach clenching in unease as the men surround the poor woman. While others walk away she stays paralyzed, feet rooted to the ground. _Walk away,_ urges the cowardly voice, the one that rationalizes all too well the cost of speaking again.

_Do you want to be caught? _She thinks. However noble her actions were viewed as during the festival, they led to fire, disaster, death.

If she speaks now, what is the cost?

One of the men grips the frail woman's arm, throwing her to the ground, and spitting. "Gypsy cur!" he swears, and the men crowd around her.

How many times has this scene played before her? A woman, desperate for food, stealing whatever little she can get her hands on. Soldiers catching her. Soldiers closing in, like hounds to a wounded prey.

Anger boils within her, hot unpredictable and impulsive. Esmeralda still stares, biting her lip to keep from screaming in fury when she sees them close in.

Rosa wails, a pitiful sound, and something inside of her snaps.

Esmeralda runs, sprints even, to the scene, dagger out. "Stop!" she demands, and with greater strength than her body seems capable of, she shoves one of the brutes out of the way, sending him careening into the cobblestones of the streets.

They all mutter and cry out in surprise and fury, the dogs enraged that their precious meal has been challenged by a mere slip of a girl. Esmeralda kneels down to the fallen woman who now curls in on herself on the cobblestones, whimpering in pain. Anger surges, its metallic, hot taste on her tongue as she turns back to the men, teeth bared like some animal. "Get away from her, now!" she spits.

Of course they don't listen. Men like them aren't used to being ordered around by people smaller than them. The largest of them, obviously the leader leans over to her, lips twisted in a smile. "Oh, so we have another one who wants to have some fun, eh?" he says coarsely, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth and landing on her person.

Esmeralda raises her knife, body tense and ready for a skirmish. "That's what you think she is? Fun? Just some toy to play with? How dare you call yourselves men of the law when you simply torment the very people you protect!" she shouts, voice hoarse and strong.

"The bitch has some bite, eh? I expected that from you lot. Gypsy women. If you can't sleep with 'em, you fight with 'em. Sometimes at the same time," he says, and his companions nod and guffaw in agreement.

Anger floods her, and she can hardly see through the red mist that clouds her vision. But her tongue is not impeded, as she mockingly laughs in their faces, all the while keeping the fallen woman behind her. "Well, I can hardly see why any woman would want to sleep with you. Especially when such a huge knife," she motions to his weapon, then continues with a smirk, "belies a man who is, ah, overcompensating for _something_."

His eyes widen and the men around him gasp in shock at her very words. He clenches his fists, and yet, Esmeralda does not cringe or back down. For the first time, she feels at one with her actions. Her heart beats fast not in fear but in anticipation of what is to come.

"Boys, you know what to do," he says roughly, glaring at the beautiful yet terrible woman who smirks with a red lipped pout. Esmeralda's grin is wider, and she raises her knife.

The high whinny of a horse shocks all of them from their actions, and Esmeralda blinks as the men back away from her and turn to look up the street. Baffled, she bends down to Rosa. "Are you all right? Can you stand?" Esmeralda whispers.

Quivering in fear, she nods and slowly picks herself up, leaning on her shoulder. Propping up the shaken mother, Esmeralda follows the glances of the men to a man who rides towards them on horseback.

Instantly, her blood runs ice cold, and she freezes on the spot, eyes wide.

Claude Frollo now sits atop his fearsome steed, as nightmarish as her mind had always imagined. The air leaves her lungs, and she instantly pulls her hood down. No. No. She can't be found.  
"We have to run!" she whispers to Rosa. But just as they are about to take off, strong arms wrench the two women apart and drag them forward. Esmeralda struggles, attempting to slash out with her knife.

"We were arresting this woman for stealing medicine, minister... and this woman was trying to stop us!" the leader says, pointing at the two women.

Frollo stares down at the brutish troops that grip the two women. One is obviously a gypsy, her dark skin and coarse hair a dead giveaway. The other one was cloaked, the "savior" of the other. Frollo resists the urge to scoff. How heroic. One rat defends the other of its kin. It would be better for the cloaked one to simply leave. _What a fool. _

"Bring them forward," he says with a casual flick of his jeweled hand.

Esmeralda's heart leaps into her throat as the men push her. She wrenches her cloak hood down. She can't see him. But the deep, imposing baritone rumble tells her it's him.

Inwardly, she curses herself for being so impulsive. But as her eyes see the young mother at the periphery of her vision, she forces herself to not feel so resentful. _You chose this. You've made your bed-now lie in it,_ she thinks, all the while eyeing the soldiers, imagining a way out.

The woman (he assumes it's a woman because of their skirts) looks downward, cloak yanked on tight. The high, shaking voice of the other one pipes up. "Please, monsieur I beg of you! Medicines are expensive! My child is sick, we don't know what-"

"Silence her," Frollo says icily, and one of the soldiers throws a devastating blow to her jaw.

Incensed by the violence, Esmeralda cannot stifle her tongue any longer. "You would strike a woman in chains? You have fallen far from honor, judge. In my family, you don't strike someone weaker than you," she finally says.

The husky voice of the woman slices through his body like an assassin's blade, sharp and precise. Frollo stiffens as the voice registers as familiar. _Justice! She screams, a blade in hand, green eyes glinting with fury. _

"Unmask her!' Frollo orders, and the men wrench off the hood to reveal the face of Esmeralda.

xxx

DUN DUN DUUUUN! Sorry, couldn't resist ;) Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing! As the school year is starting back up, updates will be less frequent, but I will be continuing on. Thanks again! -Cgal


	7. Chapter 6

The confirmation of his suspicion was still so shocking, he could hardly speak.

There she is, angry, fierce, and very much _alive_. Not gone, as the Captain had assured, but right under his eyes. Instantly, he looks back on all his patrols. How many times was she there in the shadows, plotting his downfall? How many times had she slipped through the city, undetected by his eyes and ears?

She stares up at him expectantly, awaiting his words. But she is the very being who has taken his words from him. She has stolen his voice, his will, his mind.

Esmeralda's eyes affix on the very man who has haunted her nightmares. Fear, cold, deep fear, settles in her body, heavy as lead. But she forces herself to look in his eyes, to not have the irrational fear that he may consume her very form through only his glance.

He's just as terrible as she remembers. Perhaps more gaunt. But still terrible, his face angular and pale as marble. His eyes are dark, soulless things that remind of a never ending hole. They just keep going, and going, deeper and deeper, with no way out.

"Ah." He utters. He knows how the men look at him expectantly, wondering what sort of tongue-lashing he will give this criminal.

But the words that spring to the tip of his tongue betray his past. The past he wishes to bury and erase from the men's minds. He wishes to take her face in his hands and strike her, over and over. Let her feel a fraction of what she had put him through. _You foul, foul harlot. You conjurer of sin. You bitch. Have you no shame, walking before me, wagging your tongue so mockingly?_

But he restrains the vile words from leaving his mouth. Instead he turns his intense, furrowed gaze upon her and chooses intimidation above the violent clamor in his blood.

"The gypsy Esmeralda. What an unexpected surprise! Although... how very _expected_ that you would interrupt the processes of justice yet again," he says in a dangerous, lilting voice.

His mocking words send ice-cold chills down her spine, from which she involuntarily shivers. But she stares him down, keeping her fear locked behind a hostile stare and a sharp snarl. "Oh, I'm simply aiding you, dear judge. These men were harassing this woman! She would be dead if I hadn't stepped in," she says fiercely, warding off the cold, consuming feeling that threatens to overwhelm her senses.

Green and obsidian orbs connect in a mutual glare. The air around them crackles with tension. The soldiers were suddenly silent. Esmeralda. The rumored gypsy queen. Facing off against Frollo. Their eyes flickered from man to woman, unsure as to what would actually happen.

"Harassment implies a victim. The only victim in this situation is Monsieur Beacop. That wretch stole valued goods. And yet you defend her. How typical of a woman of your race," he says harshly, voice edged with a bitterness that makes her skin crawl.

"I think... this discussion is over," she says.

And with a quick, jerking movement, she takes out the heavy piece of stone from Notre Dame from her bag and hurls it at the horse.

The beast rears up, causing chaos in its wake. Frollo lets out a cry of outrage, struggling with the reins as the horse kicks out its front legs, causing the men to scatter. Esmeralda slips through the fleeing soldiers to the woman and drags her away, sprinting as fast as possible.

When Frollo finally calms the steed, his head snaps up to find that she had disappeared once more. Foul oaths fall from his lips and he barks to his men, "Find her!"

The soldiers cower before the madman before him and set after her. Frollo's dark eyes turn to where she has fled, down one of the many alleyways. With a vicious snap of the reigns, the horse vaults forward, careening them both down the streets of Paris.

He outstrips the soldiers, charging forward as one thing burnt clearly in his mind: She shall not escape this time! The stench of his own failure urges him onward, pricks his soul like a hot pinpoint, commanding him to kick the steed harder, race faster.

He turns down the alleyway, blood rushing hot in his veins and anger burning hotter. Come and face me! He demands, mentally screaming into the twisted recesses of Paris.

He keeps riding, the streets becoming a blur of cobblestones, a gray, dizzying mass.

But although he thinks himself hot on her trail... Esmeralda is nowhere to be found.

His eyes wildly dart from street to street, trying to find any sign of movement.

But all he can hear is the normal goings on, the routine of each day.

Esmeralda watches from her hiding spot, keeping one hand clasped on the woman's mouth. From behind the mead barrels, she sees Frollo pull at the reins and halt the beast. For a moment, she holds her breath, sure that such a monster like him can smell the very exhales she emits.

She curses her very heart, thundering in her chest. As his head swivels like that of a vigilant hawk, she grips her knife tight. Just come closer, she dares, all while the tendrils of panic clutch her heart.

For a moment, the minister scrutinizes the multiple pathways, frustration setting his teeth on edge. _No. No!_

He couldn't have lost her again. He couldn't fail once more. He hears soldiers before him. He whips himself around, teeth bared in an intimidating snarl. "Split up! Do not rest until the gypsy girl is found!" he spits out.

Only one of them has the gall to answer back. "Which-which one, sir?"

"Esmeralda!" he snarls, the name uttered like a foul curse. The men's eyes are wide with fear as they each charge down the different corridors.

xxx

During their brief distraction, Esmeralda tears down the alleyway, dragging the woman behind her. Ducking through the most twisted and narrow of paths, she eventually finds her way to the Notre Dame.

The situation is eerily similar to before; but she tries not to think of how her insides clench in panic as she bursts through the wooden door, crying "Sanctuary."

The archdeacon's kindly blue eyes meet her own. He nods to them both, knowing her face, knowing the gypsy girl who has been so kind to the bell-ringer above.

A silent agreement passes through woman of the streets and man of God, and Esmeralda tugs Rosa up to the bell-tower. "We'll have to stay here for the night. It's too dangerous to go to the Court after he's seen me," she says rapidly, words flying faster than the quickest of winds from her mouth."

Rosa is pale and sweating, the exertions of today clearly draining. "Esmeralda... you... you know what this means! Frollo... he knows-"

"That I'm in Paris, yes, Rosa, I think he bloody knows it!" she snaps, stress evident in her clenched fists and panicked tone.

Quasimodo hears the footsteps and stands atop the ladder. "Esmeralda?" he calls out cautiously, not recognizing the woman at his friend's side.

Rosa's face pales even more. Esmeralda's gaze snaps to Quasi's. "Rosa, Quasi, Quasi, Rosa," she rattles off in introduction, brushing past the bell-ringer.

The hunchback lopes after her, features twisted in puzzlement. "Esmeralda, what's happening?" he asks, her panic so clear and terrifying to him.

Esmeralda breathes in, trying to calm herself. Trying not to feel as if death now haunts her footsteps, following her as closely as her own shadow.

The dread is overwhelming. She can just picture his face, his gaunt, terrible face, twisted in such malice towards her. Bile rises in her throat, bitter and vile tasting.

He asked her a question, She had nearly forgotten in her self absorption. Turning to her friend, she tries to remain calm... but she of all people can stop the absolute fury and fear from trickling into her voice.

"Frollo's seen me. He knows I'm in Paris. I had to run, and Rosa and I claimed sanctuary," she says resolutely, arms folded tight over her chest.

Quasimodo's usually pink face turns absolutely ghostly pale. "Oh... Oh no..." he stammers, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Rosa meanwhile, sits on the abandoned stool in the corner, wringing her hands, muttering apologies. "I shouldn't have stolen from Beacop. It was too risky... I-I never meaned to get you into trouble," she says woefully.

"Rosa, it's not your fault. I probably would have gotten into trouble eventually," Esmeralda sighs, at last admitting the one truth she knew to be true.

At the corner of her eye, she sees a quick movement. Quasimodo stands in front of them. "Come with me. Please," he says purposefully. Rosa shakily stands, and Esmeralda tugs her along as the bell-ringer leads them up into the bell-loft. "We have to find somewhere for you to hide. You can stay here, but you need to hide," he says, leading through twisting passageways.

"Hide?" Esmeralda replies.

Quasi turns, wringing his hands together. "If I know Frollo... and I probably should... he's not going to make the same mistake last time. The first place he's going to check will be the bell-tower. I hid you once. He knows I'll do it again," he says hurriedly.

Esmeralda's face immediately drains of any color as the weight of his statement hits her. "Oh... oh God, I'm so sorry... We've put you at risk!" she realizes.

Quasimodo shakes his head. "I'll be fine. But you've got to hide, I'm sure he will be here any moment."

Suddenly, the three jump at the sound of footsteps, rapid and purposeful, echoing up the stairs. Quasi drags them both to a closet tucked away behind one of the bells. "This is where all the broken statues go. He shouldn't look in here, I doubt he knows it exists."

Immediately, Esmeralda pulls him into a hug, clinging to him tight. "Be careful around him, you here? If things get bad..." she trails off, her voice cutting off.

"I'll be fine. Get in the cupboard!" he whispers.

Rosa and Esmeralda slip inside. "Ouch!" Rosa hisses as she stubs her toe on one of the gargoyles. Esmeralda automatically clamps her arm onto Rosa's wrist, glaring at her. Shooting an apologetic look, Rosa snaps her lips over her teeth.

The two women crouch down, tucking themselves in the shelving among the cracked angels, saints, and gargoyles. Esmeralda grips Rosa's hand tight as her heart pounds furiously. She curses her own heart for being so loud.

Esmeralda hears muffled voices, far away from the door. But no matter the distance, the baritone of Frollo still sends shudders of terror through her frame.

Please God, oh please, she prays for one of the few times in her life.

Xxx

Frollo wastes no time in finding Notre Dame and tying off his steed. As he bolts through the wooden doors, he immediately turns to the bell-tower, a determined feverish madness compelling him to take the steps two at a time.

Of course she would come here; her greatest ally was too smitten with the raven-haired temptress to even speak up against her. Frollo gnashes his teeth in fury as he marches up the winding stairs. The fool! The boy was an utter fool to allow himself to bend to her sinful wiles.

He turns the corner, at last reaching the monster's inner sanctum. The familiar path to the boy's keep is ingrained in his muscle memory, despite the buried apprehension due to the last time he had been up these stairs.

Frollo climbs the wooden stairs, his own mind conjuring her punishments- her penance for his utter ruin. Would she hang? Be gutted? Would that beautiful body experience the very same lash as his own? Or perhaps he would finish what he started so many months ago, and torch her until her beautiful red mouth was kissed by flame?

His inner monologue cuts off when Quasimodo lopes in front of him, arms crossed. His face is still as disfigured, as monstrous as he remembered.

But while he used to have a shyness, a fear that pervaded his features... his crossed arms, his furrowed brow connote a determination, a bravery that vaguely unsettles the minister.

For a moment, master and slave eye each other, guarded expressions on their faces. Frollo relaxes the snarl that curls back his lips, replacing it with the stone mask of judicial sensibility. If he is to reach his goal... he has to stifle the violent beats of his heart, the angry throb of his pulse that pounds ceaselessly through his veins.

"Good afternoon, Quasimodo," he slowly begins.

The bell-ringer is absolutely motionless. The tension practically crackles in the air around them as Frollo waits for his response.

At last, he replies, "What do you want?"

A wan, tight-lipped smile spreads on his lips. "Ah, quite a quick response. What makes you believe I want something from you, Quasimodo?"

The hunchback flinches minutely, an involuntary reaction bred after years of righteous discipline. But, to the judge's surprise, he remains frank and concise in his response, "Because you've been out of prison for three months, and it's only now that you come here."

There is no accusatory bite to his words. The boy is too mild-mannered for such an action. But within the words is a truthful cadence. And Frollo must admit his intentions.

"Did you miss me? I thought you made your true intentions quite clear when you chose to save that wretched harlot," he says casually, although his anger flares at the very mention of her.

"She's none of those things," Quasimodo exclaims, fists clenched. Despite himself, Frollo feels the smallest bit of apprehension at the bell-ringer's defensive stance. He must tread lightly... the last confrontation with the boy ended quite... unfortunately.

He chooses diplomacy. "Since you are quite eager to discern my true intentions, I shall be direct. Esmeralda..." he feels his heart squeeze at uttering that name, that sinful string of syllables that flows deliciously off his tongue, liquid sin. Clenching his jaw to stifle the shudder that threatens to reveal his weakness, he forges on.

"The gypsy girl was caught in the act of assaulting an officer, as well as aiding and abetting a thief. As her last hideaway was in Notre Dame, it only seems natural that her path lead here. I am to escort her and the thief to the Palace of Justice, where the law shall exact its just cause. Surely you would be interested in maintaining the safety of Parisians?" he drawls condescendingly, his voice soothing.

But there is not a hint of relaxation in Quasimodo's stance, nor his facial features. "I haven't seen them."

A minute flicker of his gaze tells the experienced interrogator he's lying. Frollo restrains from grabbing the absolute imbecile and throttle him for such blatant disregard of his authority.

"I seem to recall another time you blatantly lied to me, Quasimodo. Did that situation end as you intended?" Frollo asks, his eyes narrowing.

Quasimodo flinches yet again. And yet, despite his growing fear... he says, "I haven't seen them."

Frollo stifles a hiss of anger as he lurches forward, hands twitching, itching to strike the belligerent boy. "You lie, and it damns you, Quasimodo. Need I remind you of your Christian duty?! Of the hell that awaits you for your disobedience?" he snarls, temper flaring beyond the confines he had so carefully placed. All the while he was aware that she was probably slipping from the cathedral, escaping once again.

Quasimodo cringes, but with that same, determined tone, he says, "I haven't seen them."

Frollo's composure snaps entirely and he shoves the bell-ringer aside, hissing, "Never mind, you fool! I shall find them myself!"

"And just who do you intend to find, Frollo?"

The new, brusque voice acts as a shock to the judge's system, and he instantly looks behind him to see the archdeacon, hands clasped in front of him, blue eyes alight with suspicion.

Frollo turns, irritation flaring, as well as apprehension. The two men regarded each other with hostility. There was a barely concealed disappointment that glints in the archdeacon's eyes, one that makes the minister's skin crawl.

The archdeacon walks unbowed, somehow unafraid of the minister despite the disastrous events of their last meeting. Despite that chaos, that catastrophe, he still insists on being a hindrance. Frollo grinds his teeth, a headache bubbling behind his eyes as he anticipates the coming frustration.

Father Maurice was a kindly old fool with nerves of steel. Had they been allies, Frollo would have admired the man for his will. As they were enemies, Frollo can only feel rage, as well as a cagey defensiveness that burrows underneath his skin.

"I intend, Father, to find two gypsies that have a great amount of charges brought up against them."

Father Maurice stares at the judge dubiously, suspicion etched in each line of his round face. "I am quite aware of the two gypsies. They have proclaimed sanctuary. In fact, Esmeralda was quite adamant about it. I suppose I do not have to remind you once again, Frollo, about this matter."

Frollo's fingers twitch at his side, the violent, yet somehow preferable image of the archdeacon in a crumbled heap at the bottom of the stairs flashing before him. He stifles a sigh of exasperation, pushing back the unpleasant memory.

He wishes yet again he were sober. Oh, he is not drunk from the earthly liquors of wine and mead. That would be preferable. Right now, his head reels with the intoxicating heat of anger, fo irrational rage towards the tiny minx that so mockingly flaunts herself behind his eyelids at night, and yet, moments ago, spurns and verbally slaps him like a child.

"I am aware of sanctuary, Father. But God's law must be performed. These two gypsies were caught red-handed. They have no defense!"

The priest has an almost chiding tone of voice when he answers. "Ah yes, of course. But their guilt is unfortunately of no matter, lest they choose to give themselves to you and rvoke their own sanctuary. I do not see them here. Do you, Quasimodo?" The priest notes.

The hunchback, usually speechless and stammering in front of the old man, clearly replies, "No, Father."

Ah, a plot to foil him, orchestrated by the former ward and the former man he had once respected. Frollo cannot hide the fury, the terrible frustration, from slipping onto his features, nor can he ignore the tightening sensation in his chest.

He opens his mouth to retort at the bald round-faced man... but each comment, each potential attacks that threatens to escape all seems more damning than the next. He suddenly realizes that he's run to exactly the same place he was more than a year ago, chasing her, defying the church's law, and getting utterly nowhere.

He feels doomed. Trapped in this cycle, the cycle of her making. He clenches his jaw, knowing the next words he says to the man he once so brutally threw down the stairs must be precise, logical, diplomatic... all the qualities he certainly is not at the moment.

Frollo straightens up, adjusting his chaperon with a careless, yet somehow perfected sweep of his ringed hand. His icy gaze affixes onto the priest, and he forces himself to speak. "I shall have guards at each door, Father. And when, not if, when, the gypsies make their escape, I intend to arrest them, outside of the cathedral. Is that satisfactory?" He slowly drawls, voice dropping low, maintaining an illusion of tranquility and methodical thinking that could convince anyone... had the archdeacon not been the direct and unfortunate victim of Frollo's previous wrath.

Father Maurice's features do not soften, do not relax. He only nods his head once. "As long as your men stay outside of the church walls... and so long as you do not meddle in these affairs within Notre Dame, Frollo," he says, pointing an accusing finger at the black-robed judge.

Frollo's lips peel back from his teeth in a terrifying snarl that has Quasimodo absolutely shaken. But the archdeacon remains unbowed, that same disappointment glinting plainly in his gaze.

Frollo makes no sound of agreement, and reluctantly turns to leave, his nerves screaming within him to find the blasted girl, end this crawling paranoia, this fever that's burning through his veins. The illness that he can't find a cure for.

But a new voice claps against his ears, its tone passive yet biting in its cadence. "And what is to become of Esmeralda when she is arrested? What punishment shall she endure for her one act?"

Frollo's eyes squeeze shut as anger and panic course through him in equal parts. He shouldn't feel like this; like a caged animal, forced to defend themselves from every person foolish to cross its path. He should feel in control.

But it's been taken. Taken by green eyes and a red-lipped smirk.

Frollo quickly glides down the stairs, robes whipping around his shaking form. He bites his tongue to prevent a strangled shout of frustration from leaving his throat.

Opening the doors with a savage bang, he exits the chapel, to see his men turn to him. His loyal dogs.

"Surround the cathedral. And make sure, that she is caught this time, else you all receive thirty lashes. Do I make myself clear?" he hisses.

Too terrified to say otherwise, the men nod.

"To your posts!" he grits out through clenched teeth, veins popping out of his strained neck. The leading officer's face pales, then shouts, "To your posts! To your posts!"

Leaving behind a mess of scrambling soldiers, Frollo mounts his horse, mind sparking with plots to finally lure her out.

Blood raging hot in his veins, he doesn't remember exactly how he makes it to the Palace of Justice. Nor how the stable boy is left quivering in fear with the reins of his steed in hand.

His mind is a reeling, filled to its brim. Filled with her face, her mocking smile, the way her green eyes glint with devious intent.

When he storms into his office, he immediately yanks at parchment, scribbling furiously.

So absorbed he was in his writing, Frollo did not notice when Bonhomme ambles into the room, quill in hand, and sat across from him.

"Ah, I see you're back from patrol! For today, I believe the next item of the agenda are the tax collection efforts in the fifth district..."

Frollo does not respond, barely hearing the man as he writes the request. Bonhomme can see the agitation present in the taut muscles of the man's neck, as well as the frantic, yet fluid movements of his fingers. "Minister?" he questions.

Frollo's piercing gaze snaps up from the parchment, at last recognizing that Bonhomme had entered. "I will attend to such matters in a moment, Bonhomme. Patience," he chides, his voice sharp, cutting to the quick. Bonhomme flinches, sensing an undercurrent of tension in the man. "Minister, what is it you are doing?"

"A request of the King," he responds curtly, about to stamp the seal. But a throat clearing breaks him of fervor.

Looking up once more, he sees Bonhomme, brow furrowed, hand outstretched. "May I see it?"

Frollo's eyes darken as he realizes that the obstacle to his plans may not be in the form of an archdeacon, but in the form of the irritant across his desk. Every nerve of his own body screamed in protest.

The fact of the matter was he was still under the eye of the attendant. If he refused.. it would be back to the dungeon. Back to hell.

He gives over the sheet, fingers tensed, clenching into a tight fist when Bonhomme slips the paper into his own ham-like hands. The man adjusts his spectacles, scanning the page.

HE can practically hear the conjectures of Bonhomme before he can open his mouth.

"Frollo... in this sheet... you suggest overriding previous protocol... to pass an act to remove two gypsies from Notre Dame..."

"If you have a point, Bonhomme I suggest you make it quite soon!" Frollo replies harshly.

Bonhomme flinches, but his tone is one of firm protocol, of schooled response. "I just... it seems rather... odd to try an accelerate this process of getting an act of removal from Notre Dame... for two gypsies who haven't been accused of incredibly severe crimes..."

"In what world is the act of theft and assault not severe? It is against the law, it must be punished!" he snaps.

He can feel the attendant's distrust growing, the suspicion pervading the room. "I simply... I don't really understand why it is you want the acceleration?"

"Because she will escape if she's left for more than one night in that cathedral!" he finally lashes out, words spewed like corrosive acid.

The words that tumbled out... they shock Frollo as well as Bonhomme. Frollo immediately realizes his gaffe, his disastrous blunder. He smooths back his disheveled hair, attempting to present a much more... rational man than what his words suggest.

Bonhomme's mouth gapes open like that of a codfish at a fish market. "Minister... who is she?" he asks, almost timidly.

Frollo attempts to remain calm even as he feel the attendant's trust grow scantier and scantier. "A gypsy. She assaulted an officer, defied the Crown in doing so. She is dangerous. Leaving her unpunished would only serve to give the heathens a reason to rebel against the King himself," he says, his words flowing easily, but utterly unfaithful to the truth that's settled itself in his skull.

The explanation, is in fact a good one. But Bonhomme's furrowed brow indicates that Frollo climbs on a slippery slope... a dangerous one at that.

"Minister... who is the gypsy girl?" Bonhomme asks quietly, wringing his hands together.

Frollo glares at the attendant. A silence, heavy, and pregnant with uncertainty, presses down on both men like a significant weight.

Frollo knows that revealing the identity of her would have him questioned. But lying, and then being found out would also risk his position.

Frustration. He cannot escape the absolute frustration of his situation. For months, the tensions have risen to a fever pitch, leaving him agitated, paranoid.

And it all results in this.

"The gypsy in question is Esmeralda," he reveals through gritted teeth.

Bonhomme of course knows the story. Who doesn't? It was such a scandal, the great Judge Frollo, toppled by a gypsy who's name was more exotic than any import from Persia.

Everyone knows the name. Everyone knows the story.

Bonhomme slowly places the parchment down. His gaze is one of worry.

Frollo knows what comes next.

"Minister... If I may be frank... you have a very great deal to lose. I believe... you are a good judge. A great one."

Irritation courses through him. "The point," he spits out.

"My suggestion is to not throw it all away... over a gypsy. Because if you send that, I don't know how the Crown will react," he says honestly.

"Then what do you suggest? Since you seem quite adamant about running my city, about taking on my duty, I would be most grateful for your input!" Frollo lashes out sarcastically, his nerves frayed to the breaking point.

Bonhomme's head is bowed.

"I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know! But you... you can find another way?" Bonhomme says shakily.

The perspiring, pale attendant sits down uneasily into the chair. _Useless man,_ Frollo thinks viciously, turning his gaze from him.

He would not fail. Not again.

His mind works at a feverish, machine-like pace, whirring and spinning with possibilities and scenarios. Calculations are made, intrigues plotted...

He takes the proposition and shoves it into his desk, the impossible scenario discarded.

Frollo strides to the other side of the room, barking orders at the youth. "I want the first brigade down by the stables, ready to leave. And I wish for Captain Phoebus and Lieutenant Levette to be in my study immediately!"

"Yes sir!" the youth pipes up, sprinting down the hall.

Frollo turns back inside, his mind reeling.

Captain Phoebus and the Lieutenant file inside. "Ah, yes. Lieutenant. If you would not mind, I would like to speak to the Captain first in private," Frollo says coldly.

One the door had shut, Phoebus is subjected to the cold, infamous gaze of Judge Claude Frollo. The blonde does not flinch, something he once admired in the captain.

Now, te bravery seems like an absolute defiance of his rule. Frollo clasps his hands behind his back, and straightens to his full height to tower above the captain.

Phoebus is silent, sensing a tension below the calm façade of the Minister. One that threatens all that stand in his way.

"Captain, would you be so kind as to remind me... what is your duty as Captain?" Frollo lilts dangerously, his eyes inspecting the man with a derision that would make lesser men cower.

Phoebus can sense a looming danger. So he chooses his words carefully. "To protect and serve the law," he responds monotonously.

"And, would you say, that includes, serving the Minister who commands you?" Frollo drawls lazily, all while his eyes connote an intelligence that cuts to the quick, a sharpness that slices deep to the heart.

Phoebus remains silent. "An answer is requested, no, demanded of you, Captain," Frollo says, looming over the man.

"Yes," Phoebus finally says.

"Then why is it... that although you reported Esmeralda was outside of Paris... that I set eyes on her this very day?" he says calmly, but the brewing maelstrom that swirls in his dark gaze only hints at the anger beneath.

Phoebus remains stoic. "When I told you she was gone... she was in fact gone. She returned after I reported that to you. I was telling the truth."

"How convenient for you. But I'm afraid... that I do distrust you Phoebus. Who is to say you are not lying right now? And after your less than immaculate record, it is easier to believe you lie than speak truth, is it not?" Frollo notes, his voice thick with judgement and a pious authority that would rival any deity above.

Phoebus can feel anger course through him. But punching Frollo in the face would accomplish nothing. "I am telling the truth. Whether or not you believe me is an entirely different matter," he says gruffly.

"Such fighting words! You are a most valiant adversary Captain. But an adversary nonetheless."

Frollo calls in the Lieutenant who fumbles his way inside. "Lieutenant Levette, I am instating you as Captain. See to it that the job is done better than your predecessor," Frollo says, his eyes meeting those of Phoebus. Phoebus barely flinches, the sentencing entirely expected.

"Yes sir! Thank you so much sir! Thank you thank you thank-" "Enough!" Frollo hisses, his voice sharp. Levette's eyes are cast downward.

"Mobilize the troops Levette. It's time we pay the Court of Miracles a little visit," Frollo says coolly. Outrage crosses the blonde's features. "Frollo, you can't do this!" he protests, lurching forward.

"I think that matter shall be decided by the king's loyal attendant. Bonhomme!" he clips harshly.

Phoebus's eyes fall on the quivering man whose hands are clenched in prayer.

"Please..." Phoebus pleads, looking for an ally.

Bonhomme is too shocked to even respond. "Well, Bonhomme?" Frollo demands.

The attendant finally looks up. "He... he can," he confirms shakily.

"Good. The matter is settled. Levette, see to it he is placed under house arrest. Be grateful that you will not be spending your night in the dungeons tonight, Phoebus," Frollo says curtly.

Levette and Phoebus, leaving the Minister and the attendant alone. Bonhomme looks positively sick.

Frollo brushes past the seated man, firmly placing the chaperon on his head. "Do be so kind as to leave your proposals neatly on my desk for when I return. Good afternoon, Bonhomme," he drawls coolly, a smirk on his face as he shuts the door soundly behind him.

Xxx

Quasimodo hands Esmeralda blankets, the archdeacon following close behind. "Here, Father Maurice found these in the church annex. It gets cold up here at night," Quasi says, much more cheerful after Frollo had departed.

Esmeralda smiles weakly, her arms wrapping around the thick fabric. "Thank you." She says to both of them. Rosa still sits on a stool, visibly shaken by the whole affair. The archdeacon notes the anxiety that seeps from both women, and speaks softly to Esmeralda.

"You are welcome to stay here, Esmeralda. The church is always open for those in need. But, I must advise you, that the both of you did in face break a law. Punishment will come sooner than later," he warns.

"I know. But... to be quite frank, I doubt what Frollo has in store for me is going to be fair punishment by any standards," she says bluntly.

The archdeacon lets out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at his bald head. "It is not in my place to criticize judicial proceedings... but Frollo has always been a special case," the archdeacon replies.

"I have no idea why!" she says sarcastically.

Rosa, lost in her thoughts, suddenly looks up when Esmeralda hands her a blanket. "Thanks," she mutters, wrapping it around her frame. She looks up, seeing the archdeacon. She automatically stiffens, throwing a suspicious glance at the holy man. But Esmeralda kneels down next to her, assuring her, "It's all right. This is Father Maurice. He sent Frollo away. You can trust him."

Rosa scrutinizes the man, and then says, "Aren't you the priest Frollo threw down the stairs?"

The archdeacon flinches, and yet again, Esmeralda remembers that Frollo harmed many people that fateful day. Rosa, realizing her gaffe, blushes and stammers, "I'm sorry."

"Judge Frollo certainly did not behave in a way befitting a man of God, yes," he replies diplomatically.

She hears the stomping, heavy footsteps of Quasi rushing towards them. "There's something going on outside!" he says breathlessly. Esmeralda straightens up, and catches a worried glance from the archdeacon. All three of them follow Quasimodo to the balcony.

Esmeralda looks down, to see soldiers marching past Notre Dame. Frollo leads them atop his own steed, barking out muffled orders that she can't discern from high up on the bell-tower.

But they're not heading towards Notre Dame, they're not storming the stairs. "They're leaving?" Rosa says, frowning. Esmeralda glances to the archdeacon whose face is passive.

Esmeralda's eyes is fixed on the troops that file down the narrow streets of Paris, the rhythm of their marching steady and ominous. "Where are they going?" she mutters under her breath, brow furrowed in confusion.

What was he planning?

She traces the path of the soldiers, and the answer jumps out at her. "They're going to the Court," she realizes in horror.

Rosa claps her hands to her mouth, muffling a scream of alarm. Immediately, guilt rushes through Esmeralda's frame. She did this. She angered the minister, and now he was going to burn down her home.

Esmeralda turns to Rosa, to see her crying. "Yosha... he's-he's too young!" she despairs, shoulders shaking. Esmeralda pulls her into an embrace, clutching the slender woman's frame to her own.

Quasimodo and the archdeacon are silent as despair and anxiety fill the air around the four figures on the balcony.

As Rosa weeps into her shirt, despairing the loss of her child, Esmeralda experiences a clarity that startles even her. "He doesn't want the Court, he already has it. He just wants me," she decides.

Quasi can hear the grim determination in her voice, and he immediately balks at her implication. "Esmeralda, you can't! He'll kill you!" he says in horror.

Esmeralda lets go of Rosa and spins to face her friend. "So what do I do? Just let him hold the Court hostage? Have him kill my family? I made this mess," She reminds him fiercely, even though her insides feel like they are being squeezed in an ice cold vise.

Rosa looks up at her, through teary eyes, and sobs, "No, it's m-my fault! I-I stole the stuff!"

Esmeralda looks at her... Rosa shakes with fear, a fear that she recognizes so deeply as her own. "Rosa, you have Yosha. You have to take care of him," she says gently.

"Esmeralda, you... you can't go!" Quasi protests.

"I most certainly am," she says firmly. She grabs her discarded cloak, latching it on. "And you're going to help," she says absolutely.

Quasi's face screws in outrage. "I... I can't!" he chokes out, voice cracking.

"Quasi, I'm not going to die. I'll... I'll think of something," she says, meeting his green-eyed gaze.

"What exactly?" Rosa asks suspiciously.

"Don't know. That's why I said I'll think of something," Esmeralda says sharply.

Rosa flinches, and Esmeralda's gaze softens. "Sorry..." she says quietly.

The archdeacon walks forward, and nods to her. "Thank you, Esmeralda. Your act is most selfless... I know that God above will be with you," he says.

Esmeralda stifles a disparaging laugh, instead choosing to smile politely. Quasimodo still stands, head bowed, silently objecting.

"Quasi... I promise... I'll be as safe as I can. But he has my family," she emphasizes.

For a moment, the bell-ringer is silent, inwardly debating.

Then he looks up, and reluctantly asks, "What do I need to do?"

Xxx

Esmeralda thought it would have been harder to break out of Notre Dame seeing as Frollo would be so adamant about not repeating past mistakes.

But, after clinging to Quasi's back, and having the archdeacon distract the guards posted outside... the hunchback managed to swing them onto a nearby roof and carry her to the outskirts of town undetected.

As Quasimodo finally set her down on the ground, he clings to her hand, a silent entreaty to not do anything risky. She nods, although she feels as if it's a lie.

They reach the Court. Nothing seems amiss... they're probably waiting down in the catacombs for her. She walks forward, the muffled thuds of her footsteps the only sound in the eerily silent graveyard.

"I can come with you..." Quasimodo starts.

But Esmeralda shakes her head. "Listen, I'm not the only one Frollo holds a grudge against. If he sees you... he will come after you."

"I want to be there with you!" Quasimodo protests.

Esmeralda turns, eyes flashing in the dusky light. "No, you have to be there for Rosa. She's still a criminal, Quasi. They'll still try and find her. She's got a kid on the way, and needs help. I need you to do that for me. Please?" she pleads.

He's rendered speechless by her. everything in him objects to her request to be left alone. She can see the loyalty, the fierce love that shines in his eyes. She was his first friend. He can't simply forget that.

"Please, take care of Rosa," Esmeralda repeats.

It is finally out of the respect for a friend that Quasimodo nods his head.

Esmeralda pulls him in for a hug. She tries to ignore how her own limbs tremble, how she can feel dread mounting in her chest. She tries not to feel... like she won't see him again.

"I'll see you soon," she assures shakily.

Quasimodo lets her go, and she can't look at his face. Can't look to see the despair that's there.

Esmeralda slowly steps down into the catacombs, darkness swallowing her whole.

xx

Thanks for reading and reviewing! The reviews really do motivate me to write! -Cgal


	8. Chapter 7

As Esmeralda descends down the familiar path to her home, she can't help but shudder uncontrollably, not from cold, but fear. Her breathing rattles in her chest, the only sound save for the scampering of rats.

Ice-cold water laps at her bare feet, seeping into her skirt. Her steps are slow and measured... and she feels reluctant to see her nightmare face to face once more.

She turns the corner to the Court of Miracles, expecting men in chainmail and armor to charge on her. Expecting his ring clad fingers gripping into her flesh.

But there's nothing. And that is most unsettling. There's always something. Always a vendor selling stolen goods, always women gossiping, always children wrestling each other for toys.

But it's silent. _It's not safe, _she thinks, anxiety spiking.

Her hands twitch towards her dagger as she darts between tents. Esmeralda turns to where Clopin's tent would be. Silently stepping between the multicolored fabrics, Esmeralda glances through the empty pathways, trying to find someone, anyone. She hears muffled mutters as she passes each tent, anxious whispers. People are scared.

Finally, as she turns towards the familiar path to Clopin's tent, she sees them. Soldiers, surrounding the tent, restraining her brother from moving.

And Frollo is with them.

Her heart jumps into her throat, and she can't breathe. Stumbling backward, she's disgusted to say her primary instinct was to hide. Slip into one of the tents, bury herself in the ground. Anything but face his gaze.

Her heartbeat roars in her ears, dulling her senses with it's angry, constant thrumming. Her hands already clench around her dagger, shaking.

Esmeralda peeks around the corner again, and from her spot, she can hear the demands of the tyrant hissing through clenched teeth and a taut jaw. Her brother is restrained, angrily shouting back at him, voice laced with profanities that would make any man blush. Frollo instead jabs a ringed finger, deep voice menacing even to her, when she wasn't even the direct recipient of its curse.

The judge came for her. That singular fact burns bright and savagely through her mind, filling her with fire. _He'll kill Clopin._ He'll kill them all if she didn't do something.

Visions of fire, of the panic induced memories that have overwhelmed her mind each time she thinks of the monster, are threatening to let loose their curse and incapacitate her.

She has to act now. Now.

Esmeralda darts out into the path, knife in hand, cloak hood off. She raises two fingers to her mouth and blows a shrill whistle.

Frollo's head snaps around and his eyes yet again connect with her own. Her heart pounds furiously as his face twists into one of sick determination.

And she runs, legs a blur as her feet beat a constant, heart-stopping rhythm against the ground. She can barely hear over her heartbeat, but she knows they run after her, chain mail clanging and banging clumsily as they pursue.

Clopin yells, a wordless cry of outrage as Frollo takes off after her, following close behind the soldiers he had sent after her. He sprints quickly, ignoring the ache of his bones, the creak of his knees. The pain of old wounds and age in his limbs does not register, his mind too fixated on her legs moving rapidly beneath purple cloth, hair and cloak whipping agitatedly behind her. He thinks of nothing but the sight of her, fleeing, within his reach.

Esmeralda expertly maneuvers through the dirt pathways between tents, twisting and turning down the narrow alleys. She dares to look back, and sees a flash of chain mail and black. Panic mounts in her chest, and she runs faster, forcing her legs to move.

She briefly thinks about going out the main entrance, only to immediately squash the thought. It was too exposed and direct of a sprint, they would quickly outstrip her.

Her head whips around to see the entrance to the deeper underbelly of the Court. Barely even considering the other possibilities, Esmeralda charges forward, quickly slipping down into one of the labyrinth like halls burrowed deep below the surface of France.

As she disappears down into the gaping maw of the tunnel, Frollo immediately feels a surge of anger course through his blood. No. He would not allow her to escape once again.

"Find her!" he barks out, breaths heaving from his chest.

The men dive down into the darkened tunnel, clambering through the dark. Frollo follows, eyes quickly adjusting to the darkened surroundings. The tunnel smells of decay and dried blood, a pungent odor that has a couple of the men gagging.

One stops running, bent over and about to vomit. Frollo quickly grips him by the hair, wrenching him to a standing position. "You will not stop. You will not even think of stopping until she is in custody! Or else it shall be fifty lashes. Are we clear?" Frollo snarls.

The man's face, green with sick, pales in fear of the Minister, and he instantly sprints with the others, hand clapped to his mouth. "Disgusting!" Frollo hisses in irate fury, grounding his teeth together at the absolute ineptitude of his men.

He strides quickly down the hall, observing the tunnel. It seemed as if it were only one passageway, burrowing down. At least it should be easier to sniff her out...

Unless... she meant to lure them down... only to find a way out again.

"Lieutenant!"

One of the men, breathing heavily, pants out, "Yes sir?"

"Seal off the entrance to the tunnel. Make sure she does not retrace her steps!" he says curtly.

"Yes Minister," the solider salutes, sprinting back to the entrance.

Frollo looks down the gaping maw of the tunnel, barely lit by the torch sputtering in its sconce. Noting the several enclosed cells lining the walls, he comes to the conclusion that he is in fact in the gypsy's dungeon. No prisoners are in the cells though. _Who on earth would be imprisoned in a sea of murderers and thieves? _He thinks sardonically.

The slapping, rhythmic sound of footsteps echoes towards him. His hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight as he becomes a hyperaware of the sound, devoid of the clanging of chainmail. And he knows within his bones that Esmeralda is sprinting out of the darkness.

Smirking to himself, he steps back into the shadows, brushing past the open cell door to conceal himself into a hidden corner of the empty cell.

He hates the way his pulse jumps when she sprints past the cell, black, riotous curls tossed haphazardly around her. She quickly runs up the entrance, and he waits for the sound of her capture.

But no such sound rings out. Instead, he hears the footsteps come toward him once again. From the corner of his eye, she sees her gaze dart up and down the tunnel. He can practically see the vicious schemes she had plotted becoming foiled in her head.

But there's a determination to survive, as he's seen in so many of her kind. A determination that has her dart into the adjoining cell with him in it, accidentally slamming the door in the process.

She backs up from the door, slipping into the shadowed alcove, only inches from his hiding spot. He can hear her panting breaths, can feel her frantic, erratic energy burning inches from his fingertips.

_Clever girl, _he thinks as she tries to make herself scarce as possible, backing away form the lit parts of the cell.

But not clever enough.

Esmeralda cries out in alarm when strong wiry arms wrap around her middle, crushing her to an unseen assailant. She wriggles and kicks, but a long, slender limb wraps around her arms, locking their mobility. She yells, only for a hand to roughly clasp over her mouth, rings clacking unsettlingly against her teeth.

The voice that hisses in her ear is painfully familiar, and also smug. "I have you now, little imp," Frollo croons, lips nearly pressing to the shell of her ear. Her scent, her sweet, familiar scent wafts to his nostrils, and he is drunk on his victory. "You will burn this time, witch. I will do it myself," he whispers.

Her body bucks against his, that soft, lithe body that still bewitches him even as he knows that she is sin, the devil's little servant. Her warmth seeps in through his robes, and he becomes dangerously overwhelmed. She feels a shuddering, rasping breath against her neck, and her disgust mingled with desperation fuels her.

She chomps down on his palm, biting hard enough to draw blood. He hisses in pain, yet delights in her fire and the feel of her hot mouth. But his grip loosens just enough.

Esmeralda launches an elbow at his bony ribcage, shocking him to his senses. He tries to grip harder, but she wriggles free, scratching and clawing at whatever she can find. With a grunt of exertion, she reaches blindly with a fist that haphazardly connects with his jaw. Frollo is surprised by the blinding pain that shoots across his cheekbone, shocked that one so small could throw such a strong blow.

Esmeralda isn't sure how, but she manages to slip from his grasp. Frollo feels her grasp at his robes, and he aims a strike to her, only to miss. His dagger is stripped from her body, and before he can comprehend what's happened... he feels cold steel upon his neck.

"On your knees!" she hisses. Frollo attempts to turn, but the steel presses harder, leaving a stinging hot trail in its wake. Immediately anger sets him on edge, as well as deep shame. Bested by a gypsy girl barely reaching his shoulder in height. He hisses in agitation, clenching his fists.

"Down!" she orders harshly.

Face screwed in disgust, Frollo slowly kneels, every nerve of his body balking at the very idea of submitting to her whims.

"Hands up," she says firmly, automatically suspicious, wondering if she missed a weapon on his person during their brief scuffle.

He slowly lifts them, flexing his long fingers. His garish rings catch the scant light. How many times had she seen those rings in her nightmares, biting into her flesh as he moved? Her vision is misted in red, and she finds it difficult to breathe without gasping.

He feels her agitation, her hatred through that single blade held to the tender white flesh of his throat. Vulnerability, weakness, submission... all the very worst things he despises, and she simply thrusts upon him with abandon, uncaring of his status, his position, his birthright.

He is nothing. Nothing compared to the steel warmed by his flesh that holds everything in the balance.

It was disturbingly familiar, this state of weakness, to the year of exile. Memory surges, and the resentment of the woman that hovers above him, who's breath washes over the nape of his neck, builds to a fever pitch.

They both hear the clanging of chainmail. And he has to stifle another cry of pain when she digs the blade in, hissing "Quiet," into his ear. He wonders if it's worth it to simply give in, have her slit his throat. Would it be better to die in defiance of the gypsy queen, or to live and follow her will?

The choice burns in his mind.

He reluctantly chooses survival... only because his death would mean her ultimate victory. And who would want to surrender such a prize?

The men rush past, and he silently curses their ineptitude. He hears voices conjecturing at the entrance of the tunnel, an argument breaking out, and a scuffle.

And then, nothing.

"Looks like your loyal dogs aren't so loyal after all," she muses, grimly smiling behind him. He glares at a fixed point ahead. He's too aware of how close she stands, of our her palm presses against his chest, keeping him inert on her knife. Without the blade, the position they have found themselves in would seem intimate, the embrace of a lover. The thought sends an involuntary shudder through his frame, one she feels through her fingertips. She frowns, deciding to not note it.

He damns his own body for reacting to her touch. Damns the way his skin flushes with unbearable heat even as the knife presses at his pulse point. Damns how her sweet smell permeates the air around him, until he can no longer breathe.

How could he have miscalculated so grievously, and allowed her to have dominion? The gypsy, the harlot. The sinner dragging him down with her.

Esmeralda is silent, inwardly debating what she should do. It would be easy, too easy to just... do it. To kill him.

How many members of her family would be saved if she simply pressed the knife? Her nightmares, gone. Quasimodo's fear, gone. The injustice, gone.

_He shouldn't be alive..._ she thinks, her hands trembling at the prospect.

Her heart pounds as she clenches a fist at his chest, scraping the skin beneath his robe. His breathing is labored as he feels her body press into his back, her softness frustratingly close. Wanting, lust, peaks through him flooding his body with a shameful heat he wants to temper. He grits his teeth, silently praying for relief. _Beata Maria, protect me sin, protect me from the temptress that holds me captive,_ he begs.

She's quiet, so very quiet. It unsettles him, because the tension in the room is rising fast, signaling catastrophe.

_Do it,_ Esmeralda inwardly screams, her palms clammy with sweat. Clopin wouldn't even hesitate to gut him then throw him to the dogs.

Her hands shake and she prays that he does not see their trembling.

She had never killed before. Never sunk in a blade to flesh. In many ways, she is no innocent, but in this, she remains completely in the dark. And the unknown gapes out like some beastly thing's maw, ready to consume all.

Her mind is suddenly rife with excuses, one much more prevalent than the others.

If she slit his throat now... what would be the consequences later? The tyrant would be gone. But then again, the Crown was quite adamant about putting him back as minister. They were on his side.

What would they do if she killed him? They would have a reason to completely dismantle the Court. Kill her family.

She hates that part of her is relieved at the prospect of leaving him alive. She tries not to dwell upon it, and at last speaks.

"All right... let's cut a deal," she says firmly.

Immediately, he stiffens, her husky demand sending a wave of repulsion through him. "I do not negotiate with the likes of you gypsies," he spits out, the words akin to the most profane of curses.

"Well, unfortunately for you, I have the knife, so you've got no choice but to negotiate with the likes of me," she replies bitterly.

He attempts to turn his head, only to feel it press harder. "Stop," she orders.

He grinds his teeth in aggravation, galled at the imperious way she demands his allegiance. "So, witch. What is it you wish? My death? Then do it already!" he grits out harshly.

"I don't want to kill you, but I will if you threaten me again," she responds truthfully.

But he cannot hear truth, and imagines falseness in her tone. He laughs bitterly, mockingly. "Such lies you tell... It makes me wonder if indeed falsehoods are ingrained onto the tongues of gypsy babes. You all speak such charming tales, such heathen rabble... you are masters of deceit, trickery..."

"Well, if I am such a good liar, then you should be very, very nervous Minister," she exclaims angrily, his tone grating on her ears, his very presence like an itch that she couldn't scratch.

He was silent, contemplating her words. She breathes out, steadying herself.

"I'm going to give you a bargain. A compromise. I let you go, and you call off your men. You don't harass my family. You leave the Court..."

"And?"

"I'll leave Paris. For good this time. You'll never see me again. You can escort me to the border personally."

A dark hollow laugh rumbles in his chest. "You crept through my city undetected for months... what makes me believe you will not do it again?"

"I assure you... a city that has you as Minister... is no longer a city I want a part in," she says grimly.

"And what of punishment? You broke the law. I will not let you walk away from punishment," he emphasizes, his voice sharp.

Her face screws into one of outrage, and he can hear a biting viciousness in her words as she says, "Isn't exile enough? Isn't leaving behind my family, my home, enough?"

"Nothing shall be enough for what you have done!" he spits out harshly.

"What I've done?" she whispers, shocked at his gall, at the very... ignorance of the man.

He feels the knife press tight... and he realizes he might have miscalculated.

It would be too easy... The anger that burns through her veins fuels the fire, the need to silence him for good.

"Criminals must be punished..." he says decidedly.

"Yes they should," she replies accusingly.

The world is balanced on a knife's edge, and he knows she is only moments from making her choice.

Her grip still clenches him, and he wonders when the air became so thin in this cell. When his lungs found it so difficult to take in the air around him.

But then... her fists relaxes its iron grip. "I've given you my proposition. Tell me your answer... now!"

"How will I know you have gone? That you don't lie," Frollo says.

"I keep my promises Frollo. Have your soldiers patrol the border, report to you if I'm gone. And they will say the truth," she replies.

Her knife presses. And he decides what would be best for his survival.

"I accept it. Let go of me now," he orders.

She glares down at his disheveled grey hair, disgusted by the very man who kneels before her.

"I'm opening the door. You're going to walk with me out the tunnel, and will call your men off," she explains.

"Do you think me an imbecile? I believe I would know quite well how this transaction shall proceed!" he lashes out, already pushed to his breaking point.

"Then get up, with your hands up, and move to the damn door!" she cries out in frustration.

Sick to his stomach at the prospect of submission, he slowly rises, looming above her. She takes his own knife and presses it to his back. "Two's better than one. So don't get any ideas," she says quietly.

She presses the tip of her knife to his back, and he slowly walks forward. She has to strain to reach his neck, but it's enough of a threat that he does not do anything but slowly glide over to the door.

He contemplates the very agreement he had so reluctantly chose to accept. Gone. She would be gone. Without punishment, without so much as a trial.

Vengeance. Such a bitter, angry emotion. Such a biting, brutal path.. Especially bitter if admitting defeat. His mind schemes around her deal. What is a gypsy's promise worth to him? He would break greater men's vows in the name of the law.

His hands grasp around the door, and push... only for it to remain absolutely inert. Frowning, he pushes once again.

"You're stalling!" she accuses.

He turns his head and narrows his eyes. "It's rather difficult to open a door when it is locked," he quips sarcastically at her.

_Locked? Locked?! _

Esmeralda's green eyes involuntarily widen in fear. It's as if her worst nightmares had spontaneously animated, came to life before her eyes.

"There has to be a way out," Esmeralda says, trying to remain calm, not let panic flood into her voice. She shoves him aside, still holding a knife to his back, and bends over to the lock, jamming one of her hairpins she always kept for situations like this. Chewing her lower lip, she wiggles it back and forth, trying desperately to get it to open,

But the padlock wasn't giving, and she suddenly remembers. _"Can't believe I spent ten whole silvers on this damn lock. Lock-pick proof. That's what I get for leading a bunch of crooks. All of 'em now how to pick their way out of anything," _Clopin had complained.

"Damn it!" she says, banging her fist on the iron gate, hand trembling in anger that she could be so stupid, so mindless.

Especially around a man like him.

She straightens up and instantly shoots a glare at the minister's back still pressing the knife in.

"Well, did you find your way out?" he says sardonically.

At that comment, she is tempted to reach over and strike him across his smug face. But she restrains herself.

"Clopin will check the cells. He's sure to find you and I, minister. We'll just have to bide our time," she says, meeting his cold gaze. Ignoring the fear that it would be the soldiers, not the

Frollo remains motionless, outwardly tranquil even. But within his mind, a crushing feeling of dread came upon him. Trapped. With this temptation within his grasp. The situations his mind came up with were appalling, and he had to physically clench his fists and inwardly count to keep the violent clamor of his blood still.

He loathed being cornered. But it seemed as if there was no other choice. "Ah yes. Well, I am patient," he said lowly, a smirk on his face. The smirk disguised him. Disguised the turmoil of his mind.

Esmeralda seems less sure than ever, pressing the knife in. Who knew how long they could stay in their position? She didn't want to relinquish her upper hand, but if they were going to be in here for a long time, it wouldn't be smart to stay standing.

"I want you to get over to the wall, and face me with your hands raised up," she says.

He cocks his head in her direction, testing her. "And if I don't?"

The only response is the increase in pressure from the knife at his back. Scowling, he shuffles over to the opposite wall, guided by her knife-point. Once there, he slowly turns, feeling the blade reposition itself at his throat once again.

Esmeralda stares him down, knuckles turning white from clenching both weapons. Slowly, she backs away, keeping a watchful eye on both his hands. "You stay over there. And I will be here. You make one move, one move, that I don't like... and there'll be a new body in these cells," she says, eyes narrowing.

One of his eyebrows rises, but to her chagrin, he simply gave her a joyless smile. "Oh, my dear little witch, what makes you think I'd be so... unsavory?" Frollo said, already knowing her response.

"Oh, I don't know. How about every single damn time you've tried to kill me?" she said, her voice strained.

"I have no such intentions tonight. Besides, the king's attendant would be most displeased if your body were to turn up with barely a trial to convict you," he remarks. His tongue weaves quite the tale, and he must admit, that she is not the only liar in this cell.

"Still don't trust you Frollo," she says with a harsh laugh.

He had once heard her laugh freely, without abandon. This laugh... it was utterly joyless. Dismal even. He's surprised by the involuntary pang that strikes through his chest.

He scowls. What did her laugh matter to him? It was better that it is without mirth. Her mirth usually meant she was mocking him, the minx.

He remains silent, and Esmeralda backs from him slowly, and slumps down against the wall, crouching with her dagger pointed at him.

He remains standing, and chooses to focus his gaze on the wall above her head, refusing to look at her. Refusing to acknowledge her. It's better then. For both of them.

Xxx

Silence presses on both of them, still, heavy silence. Esmeralda spends her time carving into the rock floor, her scratching noises breaking the silence. Frollo listlessly looks ahead, berating himself each time his eyes fell upon her blank face, her tired green eyes. She looks so much older than before. So much more burdened.

He presses taut fingers to the bridge of his nose, mind reeling. So many questions now burst into his mind. Inappropriate to ask them, seeing as she is a criminal. But while he wishes to sentence her... he can't help but wonder. Why did she leave? Where did she go? Who is this new, tired woman who now had so much loathing, so much bitterness seeping through her skin, pouring out into this small cell?

He stifles his inner musings, attempting to think of anything other than the one person he had so wanted to see, the person who was his downfall... and yet had saved him from toppling that one day.

Esmeralda looks up from the ground at his face. He seems the same. The same austere, severely lined face. The same cold eyes. The same tall, formidable silhouette.

This was the closest she had ever dared to be ever since she returned to Paris. It was now that she saw a pale scar, running from his temple, down past his jawline. She traces the scar's path, too curious, wondering what had caused it.

But another question, far less... uncomfortable springs to her lips. "Why did you come to the Court of Miracles? Why not just let your lackeys do it?"

Frollo's dark gaze flickers down to her, her question sending unease through his frame. Of course she knows why. Why would she ask such a question? His hands clench at the stone wall behind him as he attempts stoicism, even as . "When a task arises... it s most prudent to see to the completion of such a task yourself... and not let anyone else impede its fruition," he says casually, all the while noting her tense posture.

Esmeralda frowns, lips turning down in displeasure. "So, you didn't think they would get me, so you decided to do it yourself?'" she says bluntly.

He cocks his head to the side, a curious movement that Esmeralda narrows her eyes at. "If you wish to think of it in such a way, you may."

Esmeralda ducks her head from his, focusing on a scant piece of thread hanging from her blouse. She frowns down at her lap, brow furrowed in displeasure. "There have been so many Romani that have probably broken your laws. And yet you choose to come after me," she says pointedly.

Frollo can hear the harsh judgement in her voice. His face hardens as a bitter retort works its way up his throat.

But the retort is held at bay by her burning eyes, those intense orbs that seem to burrow into his soul, climb into every corner of his being. And he suddenly realizes that if they want to both live till morning, it would be best to stay stoic and say as little as possible.

So instead of angrily lashing out... he says nothing.

Esmeralda peers up at him, looking for some sort of response. She finds none.

"Your lack of response doesn't ease me, Frollo. It just makes me think the worst," she says offhandedly. She instantly wonders if that was the right thing to say. Why is she even speaking to him, to the man who is her sworn enemy?

He still was silent, towering over her. He's solemn, quiet, and completely unreadable.

Shifting around in her position, she looks back down at her knife, and pretends to clean its blade. Anything to keep her mind off of the man in front of her.

Silence reigns once more, damnable silence that only increases the inappropriate questions that threaten to leave him.

Finally, she breaks her silence, and says in a strained voice, "Can you please just sit down? First of all, you make me uncomfortable with you towering up there like some god, and second, we'll be here all night. Might as well make yourself comfortable."

Such an impertinent little chit. Thought herself so high, when she was simply a lowly gypsy.

She does have a point though. Already, the damp air and the immobile, uncomfortable position are making his bones ache. He needs to be alert, and he certainly can feel tiredness seeping in.

"Never thought you'd be so in tune to my bodily aches," he drawls. Her upper lip curls in disgust at the implication, and this time it's him who lets out a joyless laugh.

He debates following her request. Would she see it as weak?

He soon walks towards the wall, aware of her every expression. He sinks down, nearly hissing as the cold stone seeps in through his velvet robes.

Esmeralda looks at him, seated so uncomfortably on the stone. His back was ramrod straight, his whole body was tense. Could the man ever relax?

She wipes another insignificant spot on her blade, just to keep from looking at him.

But then, she hears the question, relatively quiet, yet still demanding. "Why did you leave Paris?"

She stops, not daring to look up for a moment. With a slow upturn of her head, she stares at him in the eyes, frowning. "What does it matter?" she says sharply. Too sharply, it sounds suspicious.

It must've been suspicious for he keeps going. "No, it doesn't matter. None of it does. But if I am to be trapped in here, I might as well have a question answered. Then you may clean that blade however much as you wish," he says wryly. She really was quite obvious in her discomfort, especially when she kept wiping at that spotless steel.

She's still silent, choosing her words carefully. "I needed some time to think."

To her surprise, he lets out a subdued and hollow laugh. She shoots a glare at him.

"So intentionally vague. I see you've grown most diplomatic since our last encounter," he says.

She bites her lip, anger surging.

But she keeps quiet, choosing to yet again wipe and scrub at invisible spots.

Silence. It's incredibly... irritating actually. To see the way she presses her lips tight over her mouth, barricading her own thoughts, her own poisonous words in. She was withholding. And he had not the slightest clue why.

Instead of explaining... she chooses to deflect, and lash. "Where were you?" she says pointedly, her emerald eyes burning.

There was the question. And he is just as unwilling, perhaps even more-so, to answer. "Exile," he says, the short word in no way encapsulating the punishment he had endured for months on end.

"You call me vague. You're about as tight-lipped as they come. You're tight _everything_. I swear, you're wound up so much you're going to explode..." she says. She was really rambling... not really like her. But the silence is getting to her... and at least hearing herself talk like a babbling fish wife at the market is better than hearing him berate her and her people.

One of his dark eyebrows rises. "Explode?" he says, so much derision and scorn in his tone she has the urge to slap him again.

She turns her gaze to him, and gave him such a sickly sweet sardonic smile that truly horrifies him. "Forgive the expression. Perhaps a much more educated word? Poor, uneducated, stupid Romani like me don't know educated words," she says, and her saccharine smile is laced with poison.

He narrows his eyes, her patronizing tone truly scraping across his ears like razors. "Poor uneducated gypsies... you could be educated though. If you simply turned to God." He says, almost triumphant that he has a proper response.

"No matter how many times I turn, Frollo... God doesn't listen," she says in an exhale.

The life, the burning energy drained, and suddenly, a much different Esmeralda appears before his eyes. His narrows eyes, and his cocky sense of superiority suddenly dissipates, leaving a blank slate in its place.

"When do you pray?" he remarks, attempting to pass it off as a challenge, when really, a true curiosity, dangerous, has been stirred within him.

Esmeralda lets out another sigh. He never did give up, did he?

"Why does it matter?"

"Usually, a faithful woman would know when she prays. You must not be as dutiful in your pleas as you thought," he says.

She isn't looking at him. It frustrates him.

Esmeralda turns to the gate, her hands looping through the bars. "I pray when I am truly hopeless. When things just won't turn out well... most of the time, my mind is too busy trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. Not exactly time to pray,"

"Before you sleep then?"

He hadn't meant for the statement to be whispered so... softly. As if it were an intimate utterance. He instantly regrets it, pegged it to a lack of self-control on his part. He was weak.

However softly it's said, Esmeralda hears the words.

She turns to him. He acted so... oddly. As if he were one person at one moment, then another at the next. Her brow knits together in what seems to be a common frown. "I'm too tired to pray... especially when it seems like nobody up there's listening."

"He rewards the faithful, who endure with Him despite the seeming emptiness," he intones.

"So, that's what you believe. Except you kill my people. _Kill _them. I guess you think that's all a part of God's law isn't it?" she says.

He had expected a firestorm of judgement from her. But instead he receives nothing more than hollowness, tiredness.

Why was she so drained?

Perhaps more goading. "Yes. The heathen races must be punished. And when you prance about with all your frivolous distractions... when you lure good Christians into your pagan traps, you break God's will. You must be punished."

She automatically shakes her head.

"You deny what I say, gypsy?"

"Of course I do. It's hard for me to agree when you diminish my people, my family, to just a bunch of... what was the word... heathens." She says, pulling her legs in on herself.

In the process, her skirt hitches up, displaying a flash of those beautiful legs. His eyes flicker over the expanse of dark skin, his fingers itching to touch. His face blanches, and his robes were suddenly becoming too hot.

He's silent, that surprises her. Her gaze darts up to his, only to see just what he was so focused on.

With an angry huff, she yanks down her skirt, skin crawling in repulsion. "I can't believe you," she says, anger coloring her tone.

The hollowness was gone. But instead of feeling triumphant at her combativeness, he simply feels shame. "What?"

"You going on, talking about how pious you are in killing my people, and then in the same sentence, ogle me like some piece of meat at the butchers. It's sick, and absolutely..." she struggles to find the word.

"Hypocritical?" he remarks dryly, his mind too addled by the whole situation to object to her accusations.

"Sure! Completely! And I'm sure you're going to blame me now, say I lured you, say I was the one who ensnared you," she says angrily.

He scowled. "Need I remind you of the Feast of Fools? You knew exactly what you wanted to do. You were completely capable of preventing what happened," he says bitterly. An old, buried anger was roaring in his veins, threatening to consume him.

She is on her feet, and turns to the bars. "Minister, I never meant to be your downfall. You did that yourself. I wanted to show them, that audience that we didn't need to fear you. That we had a choice. Fat lot of good that did me. You just... couldn't... stop yourself. And you know what? I don't have a damned clue why. Jesus Christ," she says.

"Do not take the Lord's name in vain," How can she not know why? His hands itch to strike out, to... bruise, to caress, to... to the heaven's above, he still doesn't know what he wants of her. Death or consummation? _Whichever gets her to still that wicked tongue,_ he thinks darkly.

"I've had enough of your sermons Minister. I've just about had it. I don't want you. I never did. Why do you insist on chasing after me?" she says.

With angry, jerking movements, she sits down on the floor again, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him. For a moment, she looks, really looks at him.

"You should've just gone to a whorehouse," she blurts out.

At this comment, he rears up, nearly knocking over the small wooden bench at the center of the room. His teeth are clenched, his fists tight. "What?!" he hisses, venom spewing from his mouth.

She still stares defiantly up at him. "You only wanted me when I jumped into your lap in a skintight red dress. That, and your constant spewing of chastity and celibacy values, and I can only come to one conclusion. You're obsessed with it. Sex. It drives you insane, to the point of... hurting people. Then you wouldn't have burned down Paris."

"How can you suggest something so vile, so distasteful? I would never stoop so low, so... so far down into filth," he spits out, lurching forward.

Esmeralda feels her heart leap into her throat when he twitches towards her, and automatically raises her dagger. "Really? So nearly raping me on the bell-tower, that's not vile and distasteful?" she says in a quiet voice.

He freezes, each muscle tensing. Immediately, the memory comes flooding back. The way he had cornered her. The way he had crushed her, nearly killed her. Nearly violated her had it not been for that soldier that pulled him off her.

For one of the first times in his life, he had no defense. No response. He cannot very well say that he was not blame, for he remembered each moment on that fateful so clearly, with such painful clarity. He can remember her muffled scream as he had crushed her lips so violently, the way she wriggled and fought so valiantly against her attacker. The way her eyes widened, filled with tears as he hitched her skirt to her thighs...

Shame, hot shame flooded him. He had tried so desperately to forget. To move forward. But the scars were there, on both of them. The scars on her wrists from being tied to the pyre. The scars on his back as punishment for taking what wasn't his.

She waits for the piousness, the words of damnation hurled towards her. But nothing. Silence.

His eyes are cast from her, glaring at a point on the stone floors. Nothing. He says absolutely nothing and she still is afraid of him. She hates the creeping fear, hates the simple unknown of his silence. He was probably plotting to kill her now. Find a way to slam her into the floor... finish what he started.

She really hates how good her memory is. How all of a sudden, she can be transported to the floors of Notre Dame, can feel the cold stone seeping through a coarse white prisoner's shift, can smell smoke and fire all around... can feel his heavy dead weight on her, pressing, crushing... She swallows past a growing lump in her throat, one that prevents her from talking. One that silences her.

His final victory. She wants so badly to call him out, to confront him about that night... but it was those actions that now silenced her.

He waits for something. Anything.

But nothing. The two figures in the cell are speechless, rendered mute.

He feels an itching frustration, one that burrows beneath the skin. Something was wrong with her. Why would she just... stay silent? Why did her eyes look glazed over in fear, when before they burned?

She should be mute, he thinks.

Yet why was her silence so unsavory? It did not answer the deep seated questions that ache to be released from his tight jaw.

Why did you leave Paris? She never did answer that question, instead deflecting it with vague answers and redirection. She was hiding something.

The dangerous curiosity of a man too intelligent to accept silence as a proper response rears its head once more.

And suddenly, his words are accusing. "Why did you leave Paris?"

His words are sharp, stinging like a slap to the face. Her head snaps up, her throat still blocked by memories. And regrettably, the only thing she can say is "What?"

"You know what I said. You are no invalid. So answer me. Why did you leave Paris?" he drives onward, the maddening need for an answer forgoing any previous judgement.

Her mouth parts, that beautiful mouth once adept at hurling verbal knives through his frame. He sees a slight tremble in her jaw, one that has him reeling with the possibilities.

"I told you," she finally exhales through her lips, finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak around him.

A bitter, mocking laugh reverberates against the walls of the cell, surrounding her with its sharp, cutting sound. "I interrogate criminals as my duty, Esmeralda. And your answer is, in my professional opinion, a deflection from the truth. So, tell me. Why did you leave Paris?" he repeats with grim-faced determination.

Something sparks in her eyes, a reminder of the woman on the Feast of Fools. "I left Paris. Why do you care?" she accuses. A tactic. She aims the question at him to make him defensive... pushing the focus away from her.

Frollo smile is without joy as he considers his next move.

"Why did you leave Paris? And be specific, I so hate the usual trite hogwash your kind are so intent on spewing," he says mockingly.

"Would you like me to be specific?" she says before the words could be stopped. She snaps her lips tight over her teeth, realizing with horror what she said. No. No, she couldn't be weak before him.

But he had seen the anger, the fury that had colored her eyes and cheeks. And he wants... he needs more of it. "Specificity. Unless you wish to be a politician, I doubt vagueness has any benefit. I find that your lot tend to be most direct, uncouth even in their language," he says, his mocking tone setting her teeth on edge.

"Fine, you want direct? I left because... because of what happened," she says, failing in what she had wanted to say. _Because of you. _

"What had happened? My God, if you think that's specific, someone must instruct you on the truth of language," he says wryly, all the while calculatingly looking at her.

And suddenly she is on her feet, fists balled, stance apart.

"You want the truth? Well here it is. I left because I couldn't walk in the square without smelling smoke. I left because every time I walked down the street, I had to check and make sure one of your brutes wasn't chasing me, even when no one was there. I left because everyone but me had forgotten what you did. I left because I could not breathe, could not sleep while I still walked the streets that I nearly was killed on!"

The words hang heavy in the air, echoing in his ears. She feels so short of breath, the heavy words finally out from her mouth.

But the heaviness returns. _No. No no._ She had revealed her fears to her worst enemy. She... oh God, how could she be so stupid?  
Esmeralda settles back down against her wall, her big green eyes flickering up to him. Her cheeks burned with mortification.

So much anger, so much fear. It all radiates from her in waves. Frollo is reeling, reeling from the admission. He... he hadn't known. Not truly. And now the truth is etched so painfully on her face that he believes himself an imbecile for not seeing it before. It is so obvious. He is the monster that haunted her nightmares. The garish specter that still chases her in her sleep.

A painful stab of something jabs his chest, and he suddenly can't breathe.

Esmeralda shuts her eyes, and Frollo suddenly has a desperate desire to brush the hair from her face. To place his arms around her taut frame.

He banishes the thoughts form his mind, as quickly as they had appeared there. The dangerous temptations of a woman who wants him dead.

"Esmeralda..." he says, his voice gravelly, thick.

"No. Just... don't. Forget it," she says severely.

He's silent. _Probably thinking of all the ways to torment you,_ she thinks darkly. For the hundredth time, she feels stupid, foolish.

And then, in the silence of that cell... one, strongly voiced word rings out.

"Liar."

Esmeralda's head jerks up from her arms, her green eyes staring at him in confusion. Then, those same eyes narrow.

"What?!" she says in a breathless voice.

Frollo turns his indiscernible gaze at her. His brow knits together, his jaw is firmly set.

In that same, grave tone, he says, "Liar."

Esmeralda blinks once. Twice. Then feels a defensive surge. "And just what am I lying about?" she says, her voice so hollow. What would bring the fire, the courage back? Frollo is too far down this path, so he keeps going.

"I refuse to believe that the woman who once defied me, who once spat in my face on what should have been her funeral pyre, would be so weak as to let me be the monster in her nightmares. If you are looking to extract my sympathy with your obvious lie, then you will have to do much better than that," he says, all the while gauging her reaction. Eruption in five, four, three, two...

"Obvious lie? My God, you truly never understood, did you? You paint me in your mind as some demon, a powerful servant of Satan that would never back down. But you're wrong. I'm human. I feel. I fear. I fear. You've just never understood that because you see me as the devil," she shoots back, words burning from her mouth.

The words struck him. And for the first time, he sees her.

She was no witch. She hardly was the fearsome temptress he painted her to be.

Only a girl, a slip of a girl. Only a girl who had the courage to stand before a crowd and scream her threats at him, with hardly more than a weak dagger and a whole lot of nerve within her.

She's not the monster he once believed.

"How could I not, when you seem so content in leading me to the path of hell?" he remarks lowly, almost imperceptible to her ears. He needs to grasp onto the last thread of his once stable logic. No. She is the enemy. She has always been the heathen witch, he cannot feel otherwise.

The words he speaks are quiet. Hardly the most brutal of verbal attacks he has made.

But sound carries. And the words are the last straw.

She suddenly is above him, knife drawn, blade pointing at him. His gut twirls in anxiety as she towers above him. How did she get here so quickly? She is quivering, shaking from the raw emotion pouring from her.

"You know what your problem is? You refuse to blame yourself! You refuse to simply believe that you can be corruptible. Instead you blame everyone else. Why can't you just be a damn man and own up for what you've done? The countless lives you've snuffed out, innocent lives. Well, what kind of man is that? Blaming others just so he can escape being damned? You're not a monster. You're a coward!"

For a moment, she stands, knife in her palm, eyes narrowed in hatred. And her words, for one of the first time, wound him. He sees the girl, frightened in the square, clinging to a burning pyre. He sees a woman twisted by his own manipulations.

He sees his life, and her observations don't sit well with him. But... there seems to be truth there. A terrifying truth that he had never seen.

So he is silent, too shocked to fight her. Wondering when she'll take the knife and slit his forsaken throat.

Esmeralda looks at him. But she then looks at the knife.

"Not worth it." She says, lowering her arm. She stalks away to her corner and sinks down, as her own words suddenly occur to her.

He's no monster. Not for her. He's a pious, God-fearing coward.

And although he may be fearsome... the clarity that he's not a monster lifts some of the weight from her chest.

Her words seem to sufficiently shut him up, she decides as she stares at him. She doesn't care of what he thinks. Not anymore.

Silence presses on both of them. But the uneasiness has left, replaced by a mutual need to be quiet. Because the words they aim at each other are too harmful to continue.

Esmeralda barely looks at him. He doesn't matter. He's nothing; not a monster, a coward. A man. A worthless man.

The worthless man in question can't look at her. But for different reasons. Oh she matters to him. Matters more that she should. And her words, her terrible words like poison slowly sapping his form of strength... he has heard words hurled towards him. Monster, fiend, destroyer; but never coward. His pride, his sinful pride feels attacked. And yet, he cannot shake off her words as easily as before. He cannot simply ignore them

This whole affair... chasing her once again... being trapped in the same cell. Taking in her presence... letting her through the once iron-clad defenses.

It unnerves him. It maddens him.

He can't be wrong. No. He can't...

Can he?

For what seems like an eternity, they sit in silence. Esmeralda at last feels... as if she can breathe once again.

Monsters weren't so scary when you saw them for what they were.

Finally... sounds echo down in the hallway. The clinking of keys. Esmeralda immediately is on her feet, knives in hand.

The soldiers are coming... but they are led by Clopin.

"Clopin!" she calls out.

Her brother breaks out into a run towards the cell, panic in his eyes as he reaches the entrance of the cell. His hands are shaking, the keys rattling around his fingers as he unlocks the door. "Esmeralda! What did he do?! Did he-" His eyes are wide with absolute terror as he scans over her, checking for marks, injury, the signs of a struggle.

"I'm fine. He's fine too, in case you're going to accuse me of anything," she aims towards the soldiers who stand a good distance from her brother. A few of them are bruised and cut. She sees Brutus, as well as a few other members of her caravan, standing behind them. It's quite clear a skirmish occurred between them.

Clopin grabs her tight, pulling her out of the cell. The way he clenches her tight reminds her of when she had once gotten lost in Paris as a child. She squeezes his shoulder, trying to assure the rattled jester as best she could.

"Did he do anything?" he hisses, his brown eyes darting from her to the minister in the cell.

Frollo watches as she assures him, barely hearing her words. He's too preoccupied with the chaos that brews in his own mind.

The soldiers are there, the absolutely useless men, looking worse for wear. He can't speak, can't berate them. It's only when one of the men stands right in front of him, timidly inquiring of his state of being, that he finally rises to his feet, folding his arms in front of him. He needed to close himself off from his surroundings, isolate himself from the rabble

He exits the cell, to see the faces the gypsy horde, glaring and ready to attack at their small queen's command. He does not look at her, cannot look at her when her gaze scrapes across wounds so raw so very fresh. Coward. She calls him a coward... for not blaming himself...

He can't be wrong, can he? He... he was justified. Wasn't he?

The soldiers look to him for orders. But he cannot find his tongue, the one weapon that he thought could never be taken from him.

His mind...where is his mind?

Frollo's back is to her. Esmeralda's smile of relief fades as she realizes that there is the little matter of her promise to him.

She clutches to her brother. Clopin's gaze darts down to her panicked one. "Esmeralda?"

"I... I made a deal.. and I intend to keep it," she says back to him.

Frollo hears the words above the cacophonic din of his agitated thoughts. No. He cannot escort her to the boundaries of Paris. Not like this. Not after that.

She would destroy him.

He turns his head minutely, glancing at her through his peripheral vision. He speaks quietly, his voice gravelly, "No."

Esmeralda is taken aback, and flinches. "What do you mean?" she asks, puzzled.

"I said no," he says sharply.

The soldiers mutter among themselves.

"Out, all of you. Out!" he hisses to the men.

"But sir, the girl-"

"I said out, lieutenant. Do not make me repeat myself again!" he spits out.

Esmeralda's mouth hangs open as her mind wildly ponders and flips through the various scenarios that could result of this, of his sudden inability to answer a damn question. "I..."

"Do not even speak to me!" he grits out. Pain, inexorable pain clutches at his chest, as uncertainty, dangerous and all too prevalent, addles his mind.

"Sister, should we let this rat out?" Clopin asks, his hand clenching her shoulder.

Esmeralda frowns. What did Frollo's words mean? Could she stay in her home, or would he simply come after her again? Was the deal on or off?

She knows the consequences very well if she let her brother have his way. The way involving swords, nooses, and lots of blood.

"No. He's not worth a war," Esmeralda replies firmly.

Clopin looks at her in conjecture. But seeing the firm, steely gaze, he nods.

"You may leave... but I suggest you stay out, old man. Next time, you'll see quite the show from my performers," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he pats Brutus on the head.

Frollo does not respond. How could he, when he struggles to grip onto the last scant shreds of his logic that dissipate before his eyes?

He stalks away, his head bowed for once. And as Esmeralda stares at his retreating back, she wonders: why?

xxx

Thanks for reading! And thanks to the last reviewer who alerted me that I had put my chapter up in the wrong text form (would've been horrible to read, oops on my part! :) Class is starting up, so I thought I'd write some Fresme angst ;) Thanks again for reading and reviewing! -Cgal


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